Would you mind going into your
old room and looking at the box that you will find on the couch?"
Priscilla ran lightly from the study, her eyes and cheeks telling the
story of her delight.
The box was uncovered. Some sympathetic hand, as fine as a woman's, had
bared the secret for her. No mother could possibly have thought out
detail and perfection more minutely. There it lay, the gift of a generous
man to a lonely girl, everything for her graduating night! The filmy gown
with its touch of colour in embroidered thistle flowers; the slippers and
gloves; even the lace scarf, cloud-like and alluring; the long gloves and
silken hose.
Down beside the couch Priscilla knelt and pressed her head against the
sacred gift. She did not cry nor laugh, but the rapt look that used to
mark her hours before the shrine in Kenmore grew and grew upon her face.
"You will accept? You think I did well in my--shopping?"
Boswell stood in the doorway, just where a long path of late June
sunlight struck across the room. For the girl, looking mutely at him with
shining eyes, he was transfigured, translated.
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