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“Look here!” exclaimed Mrs. Partington, in a tone
of triumph, as she returned from answering the door-bell,
bearing in her withered hand a bouquet of generous
proportions and exquisite beauty, with her name written
in fair characters upon an accompanying card. “Look
here, at the bucket of flowers somebody has sent me.
How charmingly it smells, as well as looks! And the
colors is all blinded together, too, so prettily!”

At this stage of her admiration, a small billet dropped
upon the floor.

“And here,” she continued, “is a letter besides,
written in a beautiful hand, from somebody with ornamental
corners.” “From your valentine, Timothy
Toby,” closed the missive.

She said not another word, took one more inspiration
from the “bucket,” and busied herself in preparing the
large-mouthed honey-bottle for its accommodation. It
might have been from the projecting lily spear, it might
have been from a grain of subtle maccaboy coming in
contact with her eye, and it might have been from some
deeper cause, but a tear escaped the area of the right
eye of her specs, and stood for an instant in pellucid
lustre on her cheek-bone, before passing away through
the channels time had worn in her face.

p677-177

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