Dame Dermody was sitting in the light of the window, as usual,
with one of the mystic books of Emanuel Swedenborg open on her
lap. She solemnly lifted her hand on our appearance, signing to
us to occupy our customary corner without speaking to her. It was
an act of domestic high treason to interrupt the Sibyl at her
books. We crept quietly into our places. Mary waited until she
saw her grandmother's gray head bend down, and her grandmother's
bushy eyebrows contract attentively, over her reading. Then, and
then only, the discreet child rose on tiptoe, disappeared
noiselessly in the direction of her bedchamber, and came back to
me carrying something carefully wrapped up in her best cambric
handkerchief.

"Is that the surprise?" I whispered.

Mary whispered back: "Guess what it is?"

"Something for me?"

"Yes. Go on guessing. What is it?"

I guessed three times, and each guess was wrong. Mary decided on
helping me by a hint.

"Say your letters," she suggested; "and go on till I stop you."

I began: "A, B, C, D, E, F--" There she stopped me.

"It's the name of a Thing," she said; "and it begins with F."