"No, it is Miss Athalia Lovetree. No.—Broome street, up-stairs."
"Oh! I cannot take it, indeed I cannot. Accept such a present from him? No, no, no."
He had thought of that. Jeannette by this time had the bandbox open. Did woman ever resist that temptation?
"Ah here is a note. This will explain the mystery."
"To Miss Lovetree:—
"As it is decided that you will go with us to Lake George, please accept a few things that you will need, which I have commissioned my son to buy.
"From your friend,
"Mrs. Morgan."
"Oh that is a different thing, if they come from her. And then for him to pretend all the time that they were for his sister. It is too bad. Oh, but it is a love of a hat though! is it not, Jeannette?"
Yes, it was; that was settled. First one tried it on, and then the other. Jeannette said it was a bride's hat. Athalia said she ought to be ashamed of herself to say so. Then all the other little bijouterie were overhauled, and looked at, and talked over, and praised, and then the note was read again, and the postscript; there was a postscript, there always is a postscript to a woman's letter. It was the postscript that gave it the air of genuineness. It read:
"P. S.—Don't say a word to me, or hint where the hat came from, for I don't want Mr. Morgan or the girls ever to know; nobody knows but Walter."
No, nobody knows but Walter. There was no fiction in that.