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" have an unknown benefactor. A fortnight ago came three bushels of flowers: two hundred tiny nosegays marked 'For the children,' half a dozen knots of pink roses for the 'little mothers,' a dozen scarlet carnations for Lisa, while one great bunch of white lilies bore the inscription, 'For the Mother Superior.'  Last week a barrel of apples and another of oranges appeared mysteriously, and to-day comes a note, written in a hand we do not recognise, saying we are not to buy holly, mistletoe, evergreens, Christmas tree, or baubles of any kind, as they will be sent to us on December 22.  We have inquired of our friends, but have no clew as yet, further than it must be somebody who knows our needs and desires very thoroughly.  We have certainly entertained an angel unawares, but which among the crowd of visitors is it most likely to be?  The Solitary, I wonder?  I should