She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich in epithets of vituperation only, was soon exhausted, when drawn upon for expressions of satisfaction. Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madras handkerchief for the head was given to Flora, who received it with a modest curtsey, and displaying a row of ivory, and a dimple which many a fairer belle might have envied. On Peter’s looking rather solemn at thinking himself forgotten, his young master told him that his present had not come up from the vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot, which could talk nearly as well as himself; at which Peter’s joy knew no bounds. He capered about the room, regardless where he was, and in whose presence, until brought to his senses by a smart rap upon the head by Vi’let, with— “Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till you can larn to ’have yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let and Flora following, each with her present tucked under her arm. George now brought from under a pile of other things a large roll, carefully wrapped in several covers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand. “There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, but I’m afraid you will not like it so well as the yellow calamanco.” Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’s assistance removed wrapper after wrapper. When the last was off, the wrong side of some fabric appeared, presenting a brown surface, without lustre, on which were seen rows of floss silk of various gay colors, lying without any apparent order. The right side drew an exclamation of admiration from both aunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, beheld a brocade so magnificent. The figure was a gigantic crimson peony, and a bunch of cherries alternately, each with its appropriate green leaves; on a ground of lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick as leather. “Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how could you have brought such a silk for me! I had no idea you were in earnest—how much it must have cost! (looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.” “Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendell have it for a _robe de chambre_.” “Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I am glad he has shown so good a taste.” “Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done just what we could have wished; remember you are our only daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another son to us.” Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich present aside, carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin of peculiar form was now brought forth. Mr. Fayerweather seized upon this, and undoing the little hooks which served as fastenings, opened it, and displayed a gold watch with its chain and seals, all richly chased, luxuriously reposing on crimson velvet.