day she came out for dinner, and not very long afterward, the expressman left a lovely embroidered baby's coat and cap "for the dear little daughter," it said on Edith's visiting-card in her bold unmistakable handwriting.
It was Oliver himself, who had been at home about two days, who opened the package. He and I were alone in the living-room. He flushed when his eyes fell upon the card.
"So Edith—" he began.
"Yes," I assured him; "and the roses on Madge's bureau are from Edith too."
He flung the card down on the table and came over and stood before me.
"Look here, Bobbie," he said. "I must have been completely run down—or something, before I went away. I don't know what ailed me. Everything bothered me horribly and to think I took it out so on poor little Madge. Why, Madge—Say, Bobbie, isn't Madge—" He stopped. "Pshaw!" he went on, "I've known a lot of girls in my day but not one to come up to Madge. Did I ever tell you how she can cook? Like a streak! You ought to see her arrange flowers in the middle of the table. Looks as if they were growing! Madge is worth twenty society girls. Could Ruth run a vegetable garden, do you think? Could her boarding-school friends go into the village store and run the accounts when the regular girl's off on a vacation? Madge can! I knew she would learn city ways and manners quickly enough once she was here. I knew it. And say—isn't she pretty? Isn't she simply—lovely with the kid? Humph—" he broke off, picking up Edith's
