“You did not know what a Goliath I was, nor what stogies I wore; but I thank you all the same,” John said, and with burning blushes Ethelyn turned next to her beautiful Schiller—­the exquisite little bust—­which Andy, in his simplicity mistook for a big doll, feeling a little affronted that Ethelyn should suppose him childish enough to care for such toys.

But when Richard, who stood looking on, explained to his weak brother what it was, saying that people of cultivation prized such things as these, and that some time he would read to him of the great German poet, Andy felt better, and accepted his big doll with a very good grace.

The coiffure came next, Mrs. Markham saying she was much obliged, and Eunice asking if it was a half-handkerchief, to be worn about the neck.

Taken individually and collectively, the presents were a failure—­all but the pretty collar and ribbon-bow, which, as an afterthought, Ethelyn gave to Eunice, whose delight knew no bounds.  This was something she could appreciate, while Ethelyn’s gifts to the others had been far beyond them, and but for the good feeling they manifested might as well have been withheld.  Ethelyn felt this heavily, and it did not tend to lessen the bitter disappointment which had been gnawing in her heart ever since she had reached her Western home.  Everything was different from what she had pictured it in her mind—­everything but Daisy’s face, which, from its black-walnut frame above her piano, seemed to look so lovingly down upon her.  It was a sweet, refined face, and the soft eyes of blue were more beautiful than anything Ethelyn had ever seen.  She did not wonder that every member of that family looked upon their lost Daisy as the household angel, lowering their voices when they spoke of her, and even retarding their footsteps when they passed near her picture.  She did wonder, however, that they were not more like what Daisy would have been, judging from the expression of her face and all Richard had said of her.

Between Mrs. Markham and Ethelyn there was from the first a mutual feeling of antagonism, and it was in no degree lessened by Aunt Barbara’s letter, which Mrs. Markham read three times on Sunday, and then on Monday very foolishly talked it up with Eunice, whom she treated with a degree of familiarity wholly unaccountable to Ethelyn.

“What did that Miss Bigelow take her for that she must ask her to be kind to Ethelyn?  Of course she should do her duty, and she guessed her ways were not so very different from other people’s, either,” and the good woman gave an extra twist to the tablecloth she was wringing, and shaking it out rather fiercely, tossed it into the huge clothes-basket standing near.