Bell looked rather ruefully at the object she now drew from the trunk.
"Nobody else would buy it," she said. "The girl who brought it down is new and shy, and—well, somehow, you felt that she wanted to help, and had nothing else to bring. I was so sorry for her,—I gave my last quarter for it."
It was a long strip of coarse twine lace, with a yellow ribbon quilted in and out its entire length. One of those objects that sometimes appear at fancy fairs, for which no possible use can be imagined.
"It is queer," said Bell. "I suppose it must have been meant for something; I didn't like to ask her what."
"Oh, but, my dear, it is a lovely ribbon!" said Hildegarde. "Why not take the ribbon out, and make bows and things? I am sure you must want ribbon for some of your Christmasings."
Bell confessed that she might, and the ribbon was carefully laid aside, freed from its snarl of twine.
"Here," said Bell, diving into the trunk again, "is a highly interesting article, mesdames! a pheasant, you see, carved,—Swiss, I suppose,—with all his feathers spread out. Now, I think I did pretty well to bring that home without breaking. Is there a boy in your box, Hilda? I meant this for a boy."
"There is, indeed, and I know he will be enchanted with such a pretty thing. Oh, and the marbles! Now, Bell, will you tell me what college girls do with marbles?"
"I will," said Bell, laughing. "She—Martha Sinclair—is very near-sighted, poor thing. She thought these were moth-balls. She brought a lot of them from home, and put them up with her furs this spring, and was horrified to find them—the furs—all moth-eaten this fall. Poor Martha! That, Hildegarde, is the sad tale of the marbles. They are very good ones! I should not dare to let Willy see them,—here, put them in your pocket! Here are assorted pen-handles,—went in one lot,—forty cents for the dozen of them. Some of them are rather nice, I think."
"This is a beauty!" cried Gertrude. "This Scotch plaid one. May I have this, Bell?"