Then I bethought me
of the letter still unopened in my pocket, and was hastening to my room,
when Mrs. Flaxman intercepted me.
"Won't you come into my room, Medoline, just for a few minutes?"
I followed her with some reluctance; for Mrs. Flaxman's few minutes, I
imagined, might extend into a good many, if she got to talking.
"I want to show the presents Mr. Bovver has sent us from New York--one
for each of us."
She lifted the cover from a box on her stand, and handed me the most
superbly-bound book I had ever seen.
"Yours is the prettiest," she said, admiringly, as I turned over the
leaves, looking at the engravings.
"Don't you like it, dear?" she asked, surprised that I was so silent over
my prize.
"Yes--if it had not come from Mr. Bovyer."
"Why, Medoline! not like a gift coming from one so kind and true as he
is?"
"I wish I had never seen him." I threw down the book and burst into
tears.
"Surely, Medoline, you have not fallen in love with him? I should be so
sorry, for he is not a marrying man."
"No, indeed," I cried, indignantly; "but----" And then I stopped; for
what right had I to tell his secret?
"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, is it not dreadful to be young? Men are such a
trouble."
"Why, my child, what is the matter? You act so strangely I do not
understand you."
"No? Well, I cannot explain. But won't you ask Mr. Winthrop, please, if I
must keep this book?"
"Why, certainly you must keep it. It would be rude to return Mr. Bovyer's
gift.
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