There were about a million cards, and mother glanced at theaddresses and passed them round. But suddenly she frowned. Therewas a little parcel, addressed to me.

"This looks like a Gift, Jane," she exclaimed. And proceded to open it.

My heart skipped two beats, and then hameblack. Mother's mouth wasset as she tore off the paper and opened the box. There was a card,which she glanced at, and underneath, was a book of poems.

"Love Lyrics," said mother, in a terrable voice. "To Mary, from H----"

"Mother----" I began, in an ernest tone.

"A little child of mine recieving such a book from a man!" she went on."Jane, I am speachless."

But she was not speachless. If she was speachless for the next halfhour, I would hate to hear her really converse. And all that Icould do was to bear it. For I had made a Frankenstein--see thebook read last term by the Literary Society--not out of grave-yardfragments, but from malted water tablets, so to speak, and now itwas pursuing me to an early grave. For I felt that I simply couldnot continue to live.

"Now--where does he live?"

"I--don't know, mother."

"You sent him a Letter."

"I don't know where he lives, anyhow."

"Leila," mother exclaimed, "will you ask Jane to bring my smelling salts?"

"Aren't you going to give me the book?" I asked. "It--itsounds interesting."

"You are shameless," mother said, and threw the thing into thefire. A good many of my things seemed to be going into the fire atthat time. I cannot help wondering what they would have done if ithad all happened in the summer, and no fires burning. They wouldhave felt quite helpless, I imagine.