"Indeed I don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, I think I
will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the
pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair.
Molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "Thank you," under
Sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search
for a knife, though Morton was holding his out all the time, and
finally, getting to the box, snatched at its cover--and dropped the
whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor.

"Oh, oh, oh! Sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running
away! What are they?"

The young man laughed heartily.

"Only French creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as
well as Miss Zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but I thought
I'd give you a taste of Vanity Fair, at least."

"Is that its name?" asked Molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and
was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "Oh,
how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. Is Vanity Fair all that
way?"

"Pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at Sara.

"Well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't
much to it; you can't _chomp_ it like horehound, or wintergreen
candy. _I_ like to chomp!"

"I presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? The fact is, I