addressing Mrs. Burbage--"Shall
I light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell on
your eyes."

"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly.
Though your hall _is_ uncommonly dark."

Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.

There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since she
had left. He had given her note to Burbage.

"Carry out these directions implicitly," he had said. But Burbage
allowed herself latitude; the directory gave Mrs. Farquharson's
address--and here, rather than to Saint Ruth's she had brought the
valentines--eager to see her darling,--now a bride.

Phyllis chatted happily with her for an hour. She spoke affectionately
of her uncle. "It will all come out right in the end," she concluded.

Burbage promised to come often to see her.

"My pretty," she whispered, as she held Phyllis's hand, in parting, "I
warn you of this Mrs. Farquharson. A woman with eyes like hers is not to
be trusted."

The framed valentines were hung when John came home. Thus they were the
first of their Lares and Penates; the first of the pretty things that
made a home of lodgings.

"Ah, John, you have no idea how I love my old valentines," said Phyllis
that evening, as they looked around the rooms. "I love them dearly for
themselves--as well as for their association with my mother. Aren't they
sweet and pretty?"

"Indeed, they are," said John warmly. "Don't they light up the rooms,
though?"

And so, with John's books and furniture, and Phyllis's valentines, the
rooms were transformed. "I wouldn't know them myself" was Mrs.
Farquharson's oft-repeated comment.

* * * * *

Of course you have read "Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John
Landless; that is the disadvantage under which this story labors. You
know, beforehand, that the little book won instant hearing; you know
that "Lyrics" quickly followed, and the favorable verdict of the critics
whose good opinion was most worth having. When that wonderful
epic--"London: A Poem"--made its appearance, our poet was fairly on the
royal road.

But you must pretend you don't know all this; and that "Lyrics" and
"London" are not, at this moment, in plain sight on your reading-table.
You must forget that you saw John's portrait in the last "Bookman."
Unless you are good at make-believe, it is no fun at all. You must know
nothing of the rosy glow on the peaks of Parnassus, so