She was ashamed as well as relieved when her aunt greeted her as kindly as ever, and Cynthia assured her that they had both "missed her dreadfully." Evidently Aunt Patty had kept the occurrence of the morning to herself. "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. "Ida, you will look like a dream in this blue silk," said Cynthia, whose plain little face was radiant. "I can hardly wait for Thursday night to come. I am anxious to see you in it." This little speech was like an arrow in Ida's heart. She remembered with a pang how, but for her deceit, Cynthia would be looking forward to a share in Thursday's festivities. "You are both too good to me," she said, with quivering lips, and hastily left the room to conceal her tears. Hastening up stairs, she entered her own room, closed and bolted the door. Then throwing herself on her bed, she buried her face in the pillows, sobbing unrestrainedly.