r his head.

The rooms were very cold. She took the coverlet from her bed and spread
it over him.

He stirred a little. "Thanks, old chap," he murmured sleepily.

Phyllis tiptoed back to bed.

VII

Within a fortnight their rooms were transformed. Mrs. Farquharson
declared she would not have known them herself.

John's old room, dismantled, yielded his bookshelves and his books; his
father's old desk, a Sheraton, and therefore a beauty and joy forever;
and his armchair, which took its place in a corner of the cheery
sitting-room and seemed to say--"Come, sit here, and be comfortable," as
naturally as though it had been established there for years. Certainly
it had this advantage over the other chairs; it was so roomy John and
Phyllis could sit in it together; and often did.

There were photographs of his father as a young man; and of his mother,
a flower-like creature, who had faded like a flower, leaving a fragrant
memory. Phyllis gazed at her picture with wistful eyes; and once, when
John was absent, held it to her lips.

But Phyllis's old valentines gave the rooms their charm. A dozen or
more, framed in dull gold, hung on the walls, their delicate coloring
softened by the passing of many years; their sentiment as fresh and
gentle as of yesterday.

On the day after her marriage, Phyllis had written this letter:--

DEAR UNCLE PETER:--

John Landless and I were married yesterday. We have found a
pleasant place to live, with Farquharson, my old nurse. I hope you
will try to think of me as kindly as you can, and kindly, too, of
John, whose heart is pure gold, and all mine, as mine is his. I
want you to know I am sorry, even when I am happiest,--and, indeed,
Uncle Peter, I am happy,--sorry for the pain my thoughtlessness
gave you? sorry for the mischief that was done, unconsciously,
because I did not tell you, long ago, that I was learning to love
him. It would have been far, far better to have told you? I am
truly, truly sorry. Some day, when you want me to, I hope to tell
you all this much better than I can write it.

I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle Peter. I want my valentines.
Could Burbage put them all in the leather cases, and send them, by
Thompson, to Saint Ruth's? And, please, I ask you to send nothing
else? just the valentines, please, Uncle Peter.

Always lovingly,
PHYLLIS.

On the following aft