The table was cleared, and the servants were bringing on the fruit; and with the fruit they were setting on the table a beautiful old fashioned silver epergne, that was never used but for great occasions.  Generally it was adorned with fruit and flowers; to-day it was empty, and the attendants proceeded to arrange upon it very strange looking things; packages in white paper, books, trinkets, what not; and in the middle of all a little statuette of a Grecian nymph, which was a great favourite of Daisy’s.  Daisy began to guess that the epergne had something to do with her birthday.  But the nymph?—­perhaps she came there by her beauty to dignify this use made of the stately old thing.  However, she forgot all about fanatics and Mr. Dinwiddie for the present.  The looks and smiles of the company were unmistakable.  Who would speak first?

“How are you to reach the epergne, Daisy?” said her father.

“Shall I be the medium?” said Mrs. Gary.  “These things are to travel up to Daisy, I suppose.”

“I will represent the rolling stock of this road, and undertake to carry parcels safely,” said Mr. McFarlane.  “Any message with the goods, Mrs. Gary?”

“I believe they carry their own message with them,” said the lady;—­“or else I don’t see what is the use of these little white tickets.  Where shall I begin, Mr. Randolph?”

“I do not think the order of proceedings will be criticised, provided it does not delay,” said Daisy’s father.

“Then transmit this, Gary.”

“Literary freight”—­said Gary McFarlane, handing over to Daisy a little parcel of books.  Five or six little volumes, in pretty binding—­Daisy looked eagerly to see what they might be.  “Marmion”—­“The Lady of the Lake”—­Scott’s Poetical Works.

“O thank you, papa!” said Daisy, looking delighted.

“Not me,” said Mr. Randolph.  “I am not to be thanked.”

“There’s no name in them—­” said Daisy.

“That’s Preston’s gift,” said her aunt.  Preston was Daisy’s oldest cousin; a fine boy of sixteen.

“I like it so much, Preston!” said Daisy, sending a grateful look down the table to where he sat.

“Is Daisy fond of poetry?” inquired Mr. McFarlane with a grave look.

“Very fond,” Mrs. Randolph said.

“Dangerous taste!” said Gary.  “What is this new consignment?”

“Something valuable—­take care of it.”

“To be taken with care—­right side up,” said Gary, putting before Daisy by a stretch of his long arm a little paper covered package.  Daisy’s cheeks were beginning to grow pink.  She unfolded the package.

A little box—­then white cotton—­then a gold bracelet.

“Mamma?—­” said Daisy instantly.  Mrs. Randolph stooped and kissed her.

“It’s beautiful, mamma!” Daisy spoke very earnestly; however her face did not shew the light of pleasure which the first gift had called into it.

“How did you know so well?” said Mr. McFarlane.  “Mrs. Randolph, I am afraid you are not literary.  Now Daisy, exercise your discernment upon that.”