"Yes, I'll do that. And now come; you look so tired, dear. Kittie, unhitch Prince for me, will you, while I lock up?"
"Oh, Bea, dear! I hope you will always be so happy," exclaimed Ernestine, with a wistful sadness in her voice, as they drove slowly home; and she laid her head on Bea's shoulder with a tired sigh. "It all seems so lovely, and I am so glad, though I shall miss you so after you are gone."
"But I'm not gone," said Bea, much touched, as she slipped her arm around the frail form with a loving pressure. "I'll be over home every day, and you will come and stay with me, and everything will be just as it is now, except that Walter will be your brother, and you know he loves you like one now."
"Yes, he is a dear fellow, and he will make you happy, I know. But I will not have you always, as I have since I came home—there, the girls have beaten us home, and Kat is waving her hat over the gate, so I suppose the box has come from Ralph."
Bea drove faster, in pleased anticipation, and as soon as they drew near, Kat cried excitedly:
"Hurry up! It's come! pretty near as big as the woodshed, and awful heavy! Kittie and Jean are getting the nails out. Don't stop to hitch. Prince is too glad to be here to go off of his own accord. Here, Ernestine, let me carry you," and, as she spoke, she caught the frail, light form in her strong young arms, and walked off to the house with perfect ease, while Bea tied Prince, and followed in a flutter. Sure enough, an immense box stood on the back porch, with the whole family around it, waiting for the owner to unpack, and Bea went down on her knees beside it, and began to throw out straw with an excited laugh.
"Oh, my patience! dishes!" cried Kittie, as the first bundles began to appear, and immediately arose the most extravagant cries of delight and approval, as one by one, Bea took out, and unwrapped the daintiest morsels of china, exquisitely painted in grasses, butterflies and flowers. Oh, how lovely they were; the frail, tiny things, looking more like fairy waiters than anything intended for mortal use. Then came a dozen tea-spoons, table-spoons, knives and forks, all engraved; a lovely card basket, swung by a silver chain, from the finger of a winged Mercury; two beautiful napkin rings, marked "Walter" and "Beatrice;" a dozen of the finest damask napkins, with a gorgeous "B." in the corner; and lastly, a fancy dust-pan and brush, an indescribable sweeping cap, six of the most perfect kitchen aprons, a patent stove-hook, and an old shoe, with "Good Luck," painted in red letters on the sole.
"Oh, I declare, I never did!" cried Bea, sitting down on the floor, to laugh and cry at the same time. "Isn't it all too lovely!"
"What does the card say?" asked Jean, as the others began to carry in the china and things. "Just
"'Beatrice,
From
Aunt Tremayne and Ralph,'"