One of my troubles grew out of a pleasure, but was not less a trouble for the time.  The other was not an excrescence, but ingrained with the material:  not necessarily, indeed,—­far from it; but, from the nature of the case, hopelessly so.

The penny-postman had brought me a letter from my Aunt Allen, from Albany.  This letter contained, in three lines, a desire that her dear niece would buy something with the inclosed, and accept it as a wedding-gift, with the tenderest wishes for her life-long happiness, from the undersigned.

“The inclosed” fell on the floor, and Laura picked it up.

“Fifty dollars!—­hum!—­Metropolitan Bank.”

“Oh, now, that is charming!  Good old soul she is!”

“Yes.  Very well.  I’m glad she sent it in money.”

“So am I.  ’T isn’t a butter-knife, anyhow.”

“How do you mean?” inquired Laura.

“Why, Mr. Lang was telling last night about his clerk.  He said he bought a pair of butter-knives for his clerk Hillman, hearing that he was to be married, and got them marked.  A good substantial present he thought it was,—­cost only seven dollars for a good article, and couldn’t fail to be useful to Hillman.  He took them himself, so as to be doubly gracious, and met his clerk at the store-door.

“’Good morning!—­good morning!  Wish you joy, Hillman!  I’ve got a pair of butter-knives for your wife.—­Hey? got any?’

“‘Eleven, Sir.’

“Eleven butter-knives! and all marked Marcia Ann Hillman, from A.B., from C.D., and so on!”

Laura laughed, and said she hoped my friends would all be as considerate as Aunt Allen, or else consult her.  Suppose eleven tea-pots, for instance, or eleven silver salvers, all in a row!  Ridiculous!

“Now, Del, I will tell you what it is,” said Laura, gravely.

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.