"No, miss," said the man, respectfully. "Miss Montfort!"
"Me!" cried Peggy, starting to her feet. "Oh, there must be some mistake. I wasn't—there's nothing coming for me."
"It must be for you!" said Bertha Haughton. "There is no other Miss Montfort in the school. Look at the address, and you may know the handwriting!"
Peggy looked. In a clear, bold hand was written:
Miss Peggy Montfort,
At Miss Russell's School,
Pentland.
Glass, with care. All charges paid.
"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands. "It is for me! It's from Uncle John! Oh, what do you suppose—what can it be?"
"Bring it in here, please," said Bertha Haughton, quietly, to the man, who still stood balancing the box. "There! set it against the wall; thank you! Now," as the man departed, "we need a screw-driver. Have you one, Viola?"
"My dear! I had one, but the Goat broke it, using it for a step, you know, to get up to the next story. I use a can-opener now, but that will only do for small boxes. I don't have—well, State Houses, coming every day," she added, with a good-natured laugh, glancing at the great box.
Bertha Haughton ran to fetch a screw-driver from her room, and the other two girls moved toward the door. Vivia Varnham looked black. She had made sure the box was for her, and felt aggrieved at the stupid freshman who appropriated it. Viola Vincent, on the other hand, was delighted. "I'm awfully glad!" she said. "It's simply dandy, having a box come. Ta, ta! I hope it will be something perf'ly splendid, dresses and hats and all kinds of giddiness. I love giddiness! When you want to be giddy, you must come to us; the Owls are too worthy. There's Fluffy back again with the screw-driver. Ta again! Awfully glad!"
Peggy was half inclined to ask Viola to stay, but still it was rather a relief when the opposite door closed. Whatever the box contained, she could not have enjoyed it with those sharp, cold eyes of Viola Varnham looking on.