But Mrs Lithgow’s hands, trembling with anxiety, and the excitement of great joy, and the little thin fingers of July, never very nervous at any time, made but slow progress in their work; and poor July even achieved a scratch here and there from refractory nails before it was concluded. When the lid had been fairly lifted off, a solemn pause ensued. No letter appeared; but a brilliant gown-piece of printed cotton lay uppermost, the cover and wrapper of various grandeurs below. Mrs Lithgow pulled out these hidden glories hurriedly, laying them aside with only a passing glance; a piece of silk, too grand by far for anybody within a mile of Kirklands; ribbons which even Menie Laurie beheld with a flutter of admiration; and a host of other articles of feminine adornment, so indisputably put together by masculine hands, that the more indifferent spectators were tempted to laughter at last. But Mrs Lithgow had no leisure to laugh--no time to admire the somewhat coarse shawl which she could wear, nor the gay gowns which she could not. Down to the very depths and conclusion of all, to the white paper lying in the bottom of the box; but not a scrap of written paper bade his mother receive all these from Johnnie. The gift came unaccompanied by a single word to identify the giver. Mrs Lithgow sat down again in her chair, subdued and silent, and Menie had discernment enough to see the bitter tears of disappointed hope that gathered in the mother’s eyes; but she said nothing, either of comment or complaint, till the slow business-like examination with which Nelly began to turn over these anonymous gifts, startled into sudden provocation and anger the excitement which, but for pride and jealous regard that no one should have a word to say against her son, would fain have found another channel. “Eh! Mrs Lithgow, isn’t it bonnie?” cried simple little July Home, as she smoothed down with her hand the glistening folds of silk. Mrs Lithgow had laid violent hands upon it, to thrust it back into the box out of Nelly’s way; but as July spoke, her own womanish interest was roused, and now, when the first shock had passed, the tears in the widow’s eyes grew less salt and bitter; she looked at the beautiful fabric glistening in the light--she looked at the little pile of bright ribbons--at the warm comfortable shawl, and her heart returned to its first flush of thankfulness and content. “It’s farowre grand for the like o’ me,” she said at last; “it would be mair becoming some o’ you young ladies; but a young lad’s no to be expected to ken about such things; and he’s bought it for the finest he could get, and spent a lock o’ siller on’t, to pleasure his mother. I’m no surprised mysel--it’s just like his kind heart; but there’s few folk fit to judge my Johnnie; he was never like other callants a’ his days.”