Americans All. Various

understand why, when Billy, having gathered his belongings together, moved across the aisle and sat down with her, the sixty-nine laughed again. Emmy Lou did not laugh. She made room for Billy.

      Nor did she understand when Billy treated her to a slow and surreptitious wink, his freckled countenance grinning beneath the rosetted hat. It never could have occurred to Emmy Lou that Billy had laid his cunning plans to this very end. Emmy Lou understood nothing of all this. She only pitied Billy. And presently, when public attention had become diverted, she proffered him the hospitality of a grimy little slate rag. When Billy returned the rag there was something in it—something wrapped in a beautiful, glazed, shining bronze paper. It was a candy kiss. One paid five cents for six of them at the drug-store.

      On the road home, Emmy Lou ate the candy. The beautiful, shiny paper she put in her Primer. The slip of paper that she found within she carried to Aunt Cordelia. It was sticky and it was smeared. But it had reading on it.

      "But this is printing," said Aunt Cordelia; "can't you read it?"

      Emmy Lou shook her head.

      "Try," said Aunt Katie.

      "The easy words," said Aunt Louise.

      But Emmy Lou, remembering c-a-t, Pussy, shook her head.

      Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. "She certainly isn't catching up," said Aunt Cordelia. Then she read from the slip of paper:

      "Oh, woman, woman, thou wert made

      The peace of Adam to invade."

      The aunties laughed, but Emmy Lou put it away with the glazed paper in her Primer. It meant quite as much to her as did the reading in that Primer: Cat, a cat, the cat. The bat, the mat, a rat. It was the jingle to both that appealed to Emmy Lou.

      About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it was February, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth. At recess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The echoes reached Emmy Lou.

      The valentine must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing. And to get no valentine was a dreadful—dreadful thing. And even the timidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats.

      Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was she to survive the contumely and shame?

      You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on your valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was to prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These things reached Emmy Lou.

      Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine.

      And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on the Fourteenth Day of February. The drug-store window was full of valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to see them. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten a valentine. And she would have to say, No.

      She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she went to her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through the crack of the door from Miss Clara's dressing-room.

      Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay something square and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, all over flowers and scrolls.

      Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink.

      She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it.

      Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, for since you must not—she would never show her valentine—never.

      The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being able to say it.

      Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but no one else might see it.

      It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading on it. She studied it surreptitiously. The reading was made up of letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She knew some of the letters. She would ask someone the letters she did not know by pointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was learning. It was the first time since she came to school.

      But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying the valentine again.

      Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia was busy.

      "What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou.

      Aunt Cordelia listened.

      "B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?"

      "Be," said Aunt Cordelia.

      If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were strange.

      Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith.

      After dinner she approached Aunt Katie.

      "What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"

      "My," said Aunt Katie.

      The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the other boy was gone.

      "What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her.

      Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou.

      Now she was alone, so she stopped.

      "Get any valentines?"

      "Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it."

      "Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been reading the long verses inside to me."

      "Can you show them—valentines?" asked Emmy Lou.

      "Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl.

      The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and the aunties, sitting around, reading.

      "I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou.

      They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled.

      But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee. In the valentine's center were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands.

      "I can read it," said Emmy Lou.

      They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder.

      "B," said Emmy Lou, "e—Be."

      The aunties nodded.

      "M," said Emmy Lou, "y—my."

      Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, e—Valentine. Be my Valentine."

      "There!" said Aunt Cordelia.

      "Well!" said Aunt Katie.

      "At last!" said Aunt Louise.

      "H'm!" said Uncle Charlie.

GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN

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