The youngest Miss Snow was wild with her new wealth, and there were roses for Miss Butterworth's hair, and her throat, and a bouquet for her hand.

And after this came wonderful accessions to the refreshment table.

Cake, with Miss Butterworth's initials; tarts, marked "Number Nine," and Charlotte de Russe, with a "B" and an "F" hopelessly twisted together in a monogram.

The most excited exclamations reached Miss Butterworth's ears in her imprisonment: "Goodness, gracious me!" "If there isn't another cake as big as a flour barrel!" "Tell your mother she's an angel.

She's coming down to help us eat it, I hope." "Just look at this basket of little cakes! I was saying to mother this minute that that was all we wanted." So the good things came, and the cheerful givers went, and Miss Butterworth took an occasional sip at her coffee, with a huge napkin at her throat, and tears in her eyes, not drawn forth by the delicate tortures in progress upon her person.