After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers a sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now? why should not Alice have the pleasure of them all day? A bright thought! Ellen ran forthwith to the house-keeper's room, and after a long, admiring look at her treasures, carried them, glass and all, to the library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers were smelled and admired afresh.
"Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr.
Marshman's gift."
"And what was that, Alice? I haven't seen it yet."
Alice pulled out of her pocket a small, round, morocco case, the very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin, and opened it.
"It's Mr. John!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, how beautiful!"
Neither of her hearers could help laughing.
"It is very fine, Ellie," said Alice; "you are quite right. Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr. Marshman!"
"Did Mr. John get anything?"
"Ask him, Ellie."
"Did you get anything, Mr. John?" said Ellen, going up to him where he was reading on the sofa.