Big box, little box, band box, bundle, began to pour in, to say
nothing of precious packages that nobody but "Miss Grayson" could
sign for. And then such a litter of cut paper and such mounds of
pasteboard boxes poked under Miss Felicia's bed, so she could
defend them in the dead of night, and with her life if necessary,
each one containing presents, big and little; the very biggest
being a flamboyant service of silver from the head of the house of
Breen and his wife, and the smallest a velvet-bound prayer-book
from Aunt Kate with inter-remembrances from MacFarlane (all the
linen, glass, and china); from Peter (two old decanters with
silver coasters); from Miss Felicia (the rest of her laces,
besides innumerable fans and some bits of rare jewelry); besides
no end of things from the Holker Morrises and the Fosters and
dozens of others, who loved either Ruth or Jack, or somebody whom
each one or both of them loved, or perhaps their fathers and
mothers before them. The Scribe has forgotten the list and the
donors, and really it is of no value, except as confirmation of
the fact that they are still in the possession of the couple, and
that none of them was ever exchanged for something else nor will
be until the end of time.
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