and; so
he did--from her standpoint the worst thing possible--nothing. While she
was impatiently waiting at home for a reconciliation and a proposal--which
never came--he was dumbfounded with grief, and employed his time,
tearfully of course, selecting all of her favorite poems--for she was fond
of a certain kind of poetry. Then it was that the idea of "Poets and
Poetry of the South" came upon him. The popularity of the book was assured
in advance, because he selected only those poems that he thought would
please Florence Barlowe--and her taste was average--so is the taste, I am
told, of the general public.

About a year after their rupture his compilation volume appeared, and was
an instantaneous success. The approach of Christmas made him painfully
realize their estrangement. Finally he awakened to a full knowledge of the
situation. A slow anger started up within him and gradually swept over him
like a tidal wave.

It was Christmas eve.

He lighted his lamp--his quarters were still poor and very cheerless. He
unlocked a drawer which contained his few treasures, and there they
were--the seven gifts entire from the fair hand of pretty Florence
Barlowe. There was also a little packet of letters, notes, and invitations
from the same hand.

"She never really cared for me," he said, as he tenderly drew them out
from their place one by one. "I want a love-cure," he added, "I must have
one, for I must be done with this, and forever."

Now, gentle reader, do not censure him, this George Addison, lover, for he
straightway sent them back to her? No, not that--but this: He
deliberately--although it gave him a pang--arranged to dispose of them all
as Christmas gifts to his friends and relatives. It was after this
fashion: The hat-mark, G.A., done in violent yellow, on a glaring bit of
blue satin, was hard to dispose of; but he finally thought of a little
nephew--the incarnation of a small devil--so he wrote a note to the
mother, inclosing the hat-mark, with this explanation: "G.A., you must
readily see, stands for 'Good Always.' What could be more appropriate for
your darling child?"

The shaving papers, like Joseph's coat of many colors, he sent to Uncle
Hezekiah, an old family servant, who delighted in them, even until the
hour of his happy death, unused, for who ever heard of using beautiful
shaving papers!

The embroidered slippers, which had made up a trifle small, were mailed
with much glee to a distant relative in