I opened it, and there lay inside, on their velvet cushion, a pair of the prettiest things you ever saw,--a tiny bunch of white grapes, and every grape a round pearl, and all hung so that they would tinkle together on their golden stems every time Faith shook her head,--and she had a cunning little way of shaking it often enough. "These must have cost a penny, Faith," said I. "Where'd you get them?" "Mr. Gabriel gave them to me, just now. He went up-town and bought them. And I don't want him to know that my ears weren't bored." "Mr. Gabriel? And you took them?" "Of course I took them, and mighty glad to get them." "Faith, dear," said I, "don't you know that you shouldn't accept presents from gentlemen, and especially now you're a married woman, and especially from those of higher station?" "But he isn't higher." "You know what I mean. And then, too, he is; for one always takes rank from one's husband." Faith looked rather downcast at this. "Yes," said I,--"and pearls and calico"---- "Just because you haven't got a pair yourself! There, be still! I don't want any of your instructions in duty!" "You ought to put up with a word from a friend, Faith," said I. "You always come to me with your grievances. And I'll tell you what I'll do. You used to like these coral branches of mine; and if you'll give those back to Mr. Gabriel, you shall have the coral." Well, Faith she hesitated, standing there trying to muster her mind to the needle, and it ended by her taking the coral, though I don't believe she returned the pearls,--but we none of us ever saw them afterwards. We'd been talking in a pretty low tone, because mother was asleep; and just as she'd finished the other ear, and a little drop of blood stood up on it like a live ruby, the door opened and Dan and Mr. Gabriel came in. There never was a prettier picture than Faith at that moment, and so the young stranger thought, for he stared at her, smiling and at ease, just as if she'd been hung in a gallery and he'd bought a ticket. So then he sat down and repeated to Dan and mother what she'd told me, and he promised to send for the papers to prove it all. But he never did send for them,--delaying and delaying, till the summer wore away; and perhaps there were such papers and perhaps there weren't. I've always thought he didn't want his own friends to know where he was. Dan might be a rich man to-day, if he chose to look them up; but he'd scorch at a slow fire before he'd touch a copper of it. Father never believed a word about it, when we recited it again to him. "So Faith 'a come into her fortune, has she?" said he. "Pretty child! She 'a'n't had so much before sence she fell heir to old Miss Devereux's best chany, her six silver spoons, and her surname."