cup of cocoa. On the other were boxes large and small, and white envelopes of all sizes.
Gabrielle cut the string and opened the boxes, while Hazel looked on, pleased to be remembered, but finding nothing unusual in the display; for Christmas and Easter and birthdays and parties brought just about the same collection, minus "the hearts," which Wilkins had felt through the covers. The only fun, after all, was in the guessing.
Just then Mr. Clyde entered.
"Oh, papa! I'm so glad you have come; it's no fun guessing alone." She put up her peaked, sallow little face for the good-morning kiss; and her father, with the thought of his last night's struggle, took the face in both hands and kissed brow and mouth with unusual tenderness.
"Why, papa!" she exclaimed, "that kiss is my best valentine; you never kissed me that way before."
"Well, it's time I began, Birdie; let's see what you have for nonsense here. What's this—from Cambridge?"
"Oh, that's Jack, I'm sure; he always sends me violets; but what is that in the middle of the bunch?" With a smile she drew out a tiny vignette of her Harvard Sophomore cousin. It was framed in a little gold heart, and on a slip of paper was written, "For thee, I'm all 'art."
"Jack's a gay deceiver," laughed her father; "he's all ' 'art' for a good many girls, big and little. What's this?—and this?"
One after another he took out the contents of envelopes and boxes,—candy hearts by the pound in silver bonbon
