lled scrap-books. They had, rather, been compiled with an
eye to certain red-letter events--and their bulkiness had been enhanced
by the insertion between the leaves of various objects not intended for
such limited space. There was a mask which she had worn at Hallowe'en;
the tulle which had tied her roses at graduation; a little silver ring
marking a childish romance; a flattened and much-dried chocolate drop
with tender associations; dance-favors, clippings, photographs, theater
programs, each illumined and emphasized by a line or two of sentiment
or of nonsense in Jean's girlish scrawl.

Even now, as she turned the leaves, she found herself laughing over a
rhyme which her father had cut from his daily paper, and had sent in
response to her wild plea for a box of something good to eat:

"Mary had a little lamb,
A little pork, a little jam,
A little egg on toast,
A little potted roast,
A little stew with dumplings white,
A little shad,
For Mary had,
A little appetite."

The big box had followed--how _dear_ Daddy had always been--but had she
ever wanted to eat like that?

There were letters which her father had written, pasted in, envelopes
and all, to be read in certain longing moments when she had missed him
and her mother. There were love letters from certain callow college
boys--_love_--! She laughed now as she thought of the pale passion
they had offered her.

Derry had had no word for her the night before when he had left her at
her door. Her father had been with her, so Derry could only press her
hand and watch her as she went in. But there had been no need for
words. All the evening what they had felt had flamed between them--.

So with the desire to preserve a record of these marvellous moments
which were crowding into her life, she chose a perfectly new book to be
devoted to Derry. And on the first page she pasted, not the faded
violet from the basket which had come to her yesterday--oh, day of
days!--not the dance program on which Derry's name was most magically
scrawled, nor the spring of heather, nor a handful of rose leaves from
the offering of the morning--no, the very first thing that went into
Jean's memory book was a frayed silken tassel that had been cut from a
rose-colored curtain! She had carried down her little scissors the
night before, and had snipped it, and here it was--an omen for her own
rose-colored future!

Starry-eyed she lay back among her pillows.