Laura was the sensible one, like Laura in Miss Edgeworth's "Moral Tales," and never made any mistake. I was like the naughty horse that is always rearing and jumping, but kept on the track by the good steady one. Of course, I was far more interesting, and was to be married in three weeks. "Now, Del, I'll tell you what it is. Are you going to have all your presents paraded on the study-table, for everybody to pull over and compare values,--and have one mortified, and another elated, and all uncomfortable?" "Why, what can I do?" "I know what I wouldn't do." "You wouldn't do it, Laura?" said I, looking steadily at the fifty-dollar note. "Never, Del! I told Mrs. Harris so, when we were coming home from Ellis Hall's wedding. It looked absolutely vulgar." We all swore by Mrs. Harris in that part of Boynton, and it was something to know that Mrs. Harris had received the shock of such a heterodox opinion. "And what did Mrs. Harris say, Laura?" "She said she agreed with me entirely." "Did she really?" said I, drawing a good long breath. "Yes,--and she said she would as soon, and sooner, go to a silversmith's and pull over all the things on the counter. There were knives and forks, tea-spoons and table-spoons, fish-knives and pie-knives, strawberry-shovels and ice-shovels, large silver salvers and small silver salvers and medium silver salvers. Everything useful, and nothing you want to look at. There wasn't a thing that was in good taste to show, but just a good photograph of the minister that married them,--and a beautiful little wreath of sea-weed, that one of her Sunday-school scholars made for her. As to everything else, I would, as far as good taste goes, have just as soon had a collection of all Waterman's kitchen-furniture." Laura stopped at last, indignant, and out of breath. "There was a tremendous display of silver, I allow," said I; "the piano and sideboard were covered with it." "Yes, and thoroughly vulgar, for that reason. A wedding-gift should be something appropriate,--not merely useful. As soon as it is only that, it sinks at once. It should speak of the bride, or to the bride, or of and from the friend,--intimately associating the gift with past impressions, with personal tastes, and future hopes felt by both. The gift should always be a dear reminder of the giver; a picture,--Evangeline or Beatrice; something you have both of you loved to look at, or would love to. But think of the delight of cutting your meat with Edward's present! forking ditto with Mary's! a crumb-scraper reminding you of this one, table-bell of that one; large salver, Uncle,--rich; small salver, Uncle,--mean; gold thimble, Cousin,--meanest of all. Table cleared, ditto mind and memory, of the whole of them--till next meal, _perhaps!_"