“It should be done at the same time every day,” said the neighbour, obliviously. “Dear me, it’s getting warm, isn’t it? _You_ look fresh and cool enough. I had to go to the village at the last moment for rolls for lunch. I’m dreadfully tired. Spring weather does make your feet hurt so, doesn’t it? Well—good-bye!” Mrs. Thatcher still stood looking down the street—a train had come in while they were talking. Yes, there was some one coming—a lady in brown—it must be Madge. No, it was only Mrs. Brereton. “Back from the city already?” she called, as the figure approached. “Yes. I only went in to match a sample. Dear me! how warm it is! This weather makes your feet hurt dreadfully. I wanted to stay in town and do something about furnishing the new house, but it takes so long to look at rugs, and I’ve a dressmaker waiting for me at home this moment.” She stopped an instant, leaning against the post, as the other had done. “How dry your plants look! they need water! Mercy! is that Meyer’s wagon stopping before my house? Well, good-bye!” “Good-bye,” said Mrs. Thatcher, coolly. Not only was Meyer’s wagon standing before Mrs. Brereton’s, but several other wagons from department stores were stopping further up the street, sending forth boys laden up to the chin with fat, brown parcels and long, narrow, brown parcels. Mrs. Thatcher turned around to see yet another friend, who, without her hat, had come out of the house adjoining, and now dropped down beside her on the steps. “Isn’t it heavenly! I saw you out here and couldn’t resist coming over for a minute. I’ve been sewing so hard on the children’s spring clothes, I’ve hardly had a glimpse of you for a week.—Your plants need water, don’t they?” “No, they don’t,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with unspeakable exasperation. She controlled herself with an effort as she rose. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go in the house. I’m rather expecting company.” “The express wagon seems to be coming here,” said the friend detainingly. “Why, so it is!” cried Mrs. Thatcher, her irritation subsiding before this new interest. The unexpected advent of the express wagon always suggested pleasing and mysterious possibilities to her, until recollection brought to mind the usual case of mineral water, or the box from the tailor’s with her husband’s discarded clothing. This time, however, it was a box of another kind, oblong and wooden. The man who deposited it in the little square hall evidently found it heavy. This, then, was what Nevin had meant. What could it be? Mrs. Thatcher stubbed her finger with the screw-driver, and hit her own nail lustily with the hammer, in her efforts to open the box. When she finally succeeded, and caught sight of the contents, she pushed it from her with a sharp exclamation of disgust. Inside were two rows of large, morocco-bound volumes. The gilt lettering on the back showed that they were “Selections from the Literature of All Nations, with Lives of the Authors.”