“My dear, I _love_ it! I’m fearfully addicted to jewellery. I had to put it on at once, and it looks quite elegant on top of the bandages! I’m inexpressibly obliged. I’ve got heaps of things—books, scent, glove-box, writing-case, a big box coming from India, and—don’t tell her—an apron from Mellicent! The most awful thing. I can’t think where she found it. Yellow cloth with dog roses worked in filoselle! Imagine me in a yellow apron with spotty roses around the brim!” “He! He! I can’t! I weally can’t. It’s too widiculous!” protested Rosalind. “She sent me a twine bag made of netted cotton. It’s awfully useful if you use twine, but I never do. Don’t say I said so. Who got the night-dwess bag with the two shades of blue that didn’t match?” “Esther! You should have seen her face!” whispered Peggy roguishly, and the girls went into peals of laughter which brought Robert hurrying across the room to join them. “Now then, Rosalind; when you have quite done, I should like to speak to Peggy. The compliments of the season to you, Mariquita; I hope I see you well.” Peggy pursed up her lips and looked him up and down with her dancing hazel eyes. “Most noble sir, the heavens rain blessings on you—oh, my goodness, there’s the postman!” she cried all in one breath, and the partners darted forward side by side towards the front door, where the old postman was already standing, beaming all over his weatherbeaten face, as he began turning out the letters and calling out the names on the envelopes. “Asplin, Asplin, Saville, Asplin, Saville, Saville, Miss Peggy Saville, Miss Mellercent Asplin, Miss Saville, Miss M. Saville, Miss Peggy Saville.” So the list ran on with such a constant repetition of the same name that Max exclaimed in disgust, “Who _is_ this Miss Peggy Saville that we hear so much about? She’s a greedy thing whoever she may be,” and Mellicent whined out, “I wish I had been at a boarding school! I wish my relatives lived abroad. There will be none left for me by the time she has finished.” Then Arthur thrust forward his mischievous face and put in a stern inquiry— “Forbes! I say, where’s that registered letter? That letter with the hundred pound note. Don’t say you haven’t got it, for I know better. Hand it over now, without any more bother.” The old postman gave a chuckle of amusement, for this was a standing joke renewed every Christmas that Arthur had spent at the Vicarage. “’Tasn’t come ter-day, Muster Saville. Missed the post. ’Twill be coming ter-morrer morning certain!” “Forbes!” croaked Arthur solemnly. “Reflect! You have a wife and children. This is a serious business. It’s ruin, Forbes, that’s what it is. R—u—i—n, my friend! Be advised by me, and give it up. The hundred pounds is not worth it, and besides I need it badly. Don’t deprive a man of his inheritance!”