"We want to see what is in the box Aunt Patty brought from the express-office this morning," Cynthia said. "Wasn't she good to bring it? She didn't want you to have to wait until stage-time for it."
Ida's cheeks grew crimson. "Yes, very good," she answered, in a low voice. "Where is the box?"
Cynthia brought it from the next room, and looked on with excited interest while Ida cut the strings which bound it.
"It is Aunt Stina's writing on the label," she said. "A parting gift of some old finery, I suppose. I wrote her about the lawn party, and that I expected to wear that old white muslin."
But it was no old finery that was disclosed to view when the cover of the box was removed. Swathed in tissue-paper lay a silk dress pattern of a delicate shade of blue, a pair of kid gloves, a bolt of ribbon, half a dozen yards of lace, a fine handkerchief, and a soft opera cloak of white cashmere lined with silk and trimmed at the neck with swan's-down.
Ida was too much surprised to speak for some moments. "How good of her, and how generous!" she said at last. "She must love me a little, after all."
"Of course she loves you!" cried Cynthia, gazing with childish admiration at her sister, over whose shoulders she had thrown the pretty cloak. "Everybody who knows you loves you, Ida. But you can't thank Aunt Stina; she sails to-morrow, you know."
"But you can make the dress up in time for the lawn party," said Aunt Patty, "and you can have Cynthia's help. I don't need her about the work. I can do it alone for the next two days."
"Suppose we take our meals in the kitchen, as we did when I first came?" suggested Ida; "that will save a good deal of running back and forth."
"Very well," said Aunt Patty. "It was good of you to think of it, dear," and she smiled tenderly. It had been a cross to her to be obliged to make the meals so ceremonious, though she had carefully refrained from saying anything that would indicate it.