She hung her shawl up in the inner hall, smoothed her hair, and went in as if nothing unusual had happened. Mr. Jebb was sitting with Dr. Brabazon; they were in an animated discussion about some popular question of the day, and her absence had passed unnoticed. Miss Rose had disappeared. Miss Rose, finding the coast clear, had taken the opportunity to visit her treasure drawer upstairs. It contained presents and love-letters; the one of about as much real value as the other; but the young lady coveted both. Some fresh parcels had just arrived to be added to the collection: we may as well look over her while she examines them. And I beg to state, for the benefit of society in general, that the letters are but copies of genuine originals. "Dear Miss Rose,—I hope you will accept of the enclosed trifle. With my best love, believe me yours ever affectionately, "Dick L." Which stood for Dick Loftus. The enclosed trifle was a thin paper scent-case, pretty to the eye and sweet to the nose. Rose gave a few sniffs, and flung it into the drawer to take up another. "My dearest Miss Rose,—Will you oblige me by trying the accompanying? That blue bonnet you wore on Sunday was charming. Ever yours, C. Brown." Meaning Brown minor. A packet of barley-sugar came with this, and Miss Rose began upon it greedily. Then she turned to the third. "Ever dear Rose,—I take this favourable opertunity of writeing to you, Our desk got in a row this morning and I can't go out to buy that broche I told you of, If Stiggings buys it you fling it in his face, I send you a few rasons if you'll except of them, We are going to have a joly lark this week with Mother Butter, Your affectionate lover, Alfred Jones." Mr. Alfred Jones was a gentleman of Miss Rose's own age, thirteen. She put as many raisins into her mouth as it would conveniently hold, and went on again. "Beloved Miss Rose,—_Would_ you wear the accompanied box for my sake, I mean its contents, which Jones minor (that wretched little muff in the fifth form, you know) said he should buy for you, the impudense of the youngster. I expect some jam to-morrow and shall send you a pot. Ever your devoted and respectful admirer, W. Stiggings. P.S.—I hope you have less bother now with those beastly lessons. Miss Brabazon's a tyrent." The box contained a very smart brooch, for which W. Stiggins, who was a year older than Jones minor, had given ninepence. Miss Rose stuck it into her dress and figured off before the glass, eating alternately the raisins and the barley-sugar. Emma had not called her down, or come to see after her, so she thought she might write her acknowledgments, and got out a pencil and some delicate miniature note-paper, straw-coloured and notched round the edge.