“It’s a box,” said Father Manser, turning the package over and over in his hand. “We can all see that,” said Mrs. Ramsdell, sharply. “And it seems to be directed to Miss Anne Peebles,” proceeded Father Manser, taking no offence. Aunty Peebles began to tremble with excitement as the box was handed to her, and a flush rose in the other old faces as the group closed in around the table, so that the lamp might shed its light on this surprising package. “If you could wait till I’ve taken the paper in to Mrs. Manser, I’ve got a sharp knife that would cut those fastenings,” said Father Manser, wistfully. “Her door’s closed, and I won’t be but a minute. I won’t speak of the package, and I’ll mention that the fire needs more wood, for I see it does.” “I’ll wait,” said Aunty Peebles, and spurred by a “Hurry up, then, for goodness’ sake!” from Mrs. Ramsdell, Father Manser sped off with the paper. “It’s Polly’s writing,” said Uncle Blodgett, after a long squint at the address on the brown paper covering of the box. “I’ve got one of her exercises that the teacher said she might keep--one of that last batch, if I haven’t lost it.” Uncle Blodgett drew from his coat pocket a long, flat wallet, and took out of it a piece of paper carefully creased and bearing evidences of frequent handling. He spread it out close to the box, so that all might see. “You mark that cross on the T,” he said, triumphantly. “She begins it with a kind of a hook, different from most that you’d see. I--I noticed it the day she made me a gift of the paper,” said Uncle Blodgett, as he replaced his treasure in the wallet. “The box is from Polly Prentiss,” cried Mrs. Ramsdell in Grandma Manser’s ear. “I guess your daughter-in-law’s made a mistake about her forgetting us, after all.” Then the old lady put her arm through Grandma Manser’s and pressed her fiercely as if to make amends for this reference to the doubting one. “’Taint as if she was your daughter, dear heart,” she said, remorsefully. When the string had at last given way--Father Manser had slashed it recklessly in half a dozen places in his haste--and the box cover was lifted, there lay the letter on which Polly had spent so much time and thought, with seven chocolate drops on it. Aunty Peebles passed the box around and each of the company took a piece of candy; even Bob Rust had his portion, which he carried to his favorite seat near the door into the shed, and handled as if it were something rare and wonderful, as, indeed, it was to him. Father Manser set his wife’s piece carefully aside. Nobody failed for a moment to understand little Polly’s loving thought for them all. Below the letter lay row after row of the chocolates, but they could wait. “Now we’ve--ahem!--eaten part of the message,” said Uncle Blodgett, gruffly, “suppose you read us the rest of it, Mis’ Peebles. Seems to be some time since we’ve heard direct from the child.”