ul memory, once. It fails--it fails. But it
is very prettily put, in the book, and of course it is all quite true."

Mr. Rowlandson smiled again, at Sir Peter's back. He turned the
valentines over, one at a time:--

"My me! My me!" he mused, aloud. "Think of all the old loves, of bygone
years, these represent. School-boy and schoolgirl loves--most of them,
probably; springtime loves. The perfume will always linger in these
poor, faded leaves. You never married, Sir Peter, did you? Nor I; nor I.
My me! My me! I remember a girl--when I was twenty; in Hertfordshire--my
old home. Bessy was her name. She had the softest brown hair--in a
thick braid. She wore pink-checked gingham. My me! She married a
farrier, fifty years ago."

Mr. Rowlandson bent over one of the valentines, to read the verses,
finely engraved, beneath a spray of blue forget-me-nots:--

"Wilt thou be mine?
Dear love, reply,
Sweetly consent, or else deny.
Whisper softly; none shall know.
Wilt thou be mine?
Say aye, or no."

He looked up, smiling still, and went on,--"I fancy, Sir Peter, you,
too, have your memories; you can recall some sweet face of your youth,
for which you would have thought the world well lost; you can bring back
the memory of some fragrant day when you and she looked forward with
bright hopes to happy years that never were to be. A golden day; a
golden day."

Sir Peter still stood by the fireplace, silent.

"And now this dear girl of yours--your niece--has strayed away from you,
with the boy of her heart! But, how willingly,--how gladly, she would
come back to you, and be yours again--as well as his, if you only opened
your arms for her--and said the right words of welcome to her--and to
him. She would come back and renew your faith in youth, and hope, and
love, and all the beautiful things of this old earth--which we shall
leave so soon; so soon, that every lost day should be mourned. Ah, yes!
I am sure she waits only for the welcoming words."

Mr. Rowlandson shook his head, slowly, as he concluded,--

"I am proud for myself, and sad for you, that I should be the one to
launch his little book; the little book for which she was willing to
sell her precious valentines. The little book may not set the Thames
afire, but--ah! how the thought of it has kindled their young hearts."

Sir Peter turned from the fireplace and walked the length of the long
library; then, slowly, back to the table again.