"Whatever it is, I shall love it," Evelyn cried ecstatically. To unwrap her own parcel was in itself a joy to one to whom parcels were practically unknown. In her heart of hearts she thought the presents given her by her companions in the convent were dreadfully pious and dull. She had had a mother-of-pearl rosary from her godmother—the fourth given her in six months—a rosary-bag from a school-fellow, a coloured lithograph of "Nostra Signora del Perpetuo Succorso," from the Reverend Mother, framed in perforated card by a nun who was quite wrongfully supposed to be an artist of merit, and four printed "_Mottoes_" from the sisters, the "Virtues" of which were heavily underlined, to point no doubt a needed moral.... Evelyn felt guilty as to the personal significance of many, such as, "_Venial sin, persistently indulged in, becomes mortal,_" and "_Never forget your vile body will at last be food for worms._" Evelyn was constantly being corrected by the nuns for disorderly habits and impatient words. Under the outer covering of brown paper, sheets of tissue were closely folded. The girl unwrapped each more tenderly than the last. The shape was odd, unwieldy, and cumbersome—what could it be? A vase? Too light, surely; but then Indian pottery was not really heavy. Something in filagree, perhaps? None of the other girls had a father who lived in India; this present would be unlike any of the others. She tore back the last covering—to disclose a wax doll, dressed in purple velvet and tinsel and imitation Valenciennes lace. "The eyes open and shut," her father said complacently. "And if you press it here"—he groped with some diffidence in the lower region of the blue satin sash—"it says ’good-morning,’ and ’how are you?’ quite like a gramophone." "It must have been dreadfully expensive," Evelyn answered. Her voice was low. The disappointment was acute. Then she pulled herself together, and faced him bravely. "Thank you so much, dear father. How kind of you to choose it all yourself."