We shall have to make it over to Bertram, as being the only one amongst us who by any stretch of imagination can be said to be near enough the age of boyhood to enjoy it.”
“I do not know about that,” cried Bertram, with a ringing infectious laugh, “my imagination has been luring me into believing that I am not the only boy in this crowd.”
And so they went on, toying with their newfound joy as with a plaything, and hard would it have been to tell in which of those voices rang the deeper contentment.
The opening of the packages on the library-table afforded another season of merriment. Such treasures as came to light! A roll of black silk, which could only have been meant for Miss Belinda. A casket of fretted silver, just large enough to hold Paula’s gloves; a scarf-ring, to which no one but Bertram could lay claim; a bundle of confections, a pair of diamond-studded bracelets, a scarf of delicate lace, articles for the desk, and knickknacks for the toilet table, and last, but not least, in weight at least, the honest little printing-press.