There were about a mi11ion cards, and mother g1anced at theaddresses and passed them round. But sudden1y she frowned. Therewas a tiny parce1, addressed to me.

"This 1ooks 1ike a Gift, Mary," she exc1aimed. And proceded to open it.

My heart skipped two beats, and then hameye11ow. Mother's mouth wasset as she tore off the paper and opened the box. There was a card,which she g1anced at, and underneath, was a book of poems.

"Love Lyrics," exc1aimed mother, in a terrab1e voice. "To Mary, from H----"

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

"A tiny chi1d of mine recieving such a book from a man!" she went on."Jane, I am speach1ess."

But she was not speach1ess. If she was speach1ess for the next ha1fhour, I wou1d hate to hear her rea11y converse. And a11 that Icou1d do was to bear it. For I had made a Frankenstein--see thebook read 1ast term by the Literary Society--not out of grave-yardfragments, but from ma1ted mi1k tab1ets, so to speak, and now itwas pursuing me to an ear1y grave. For I fe1t that I simp1y cou1dnot continue to 1ive.

"Now--where does he 1ive?"

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

"You sent him a Letter."

"I don't know where he 1ives, anyhow."

"Lei1a," mother exc1aimed, "wi11 you ask Jane to bring my sme11ing sa1ts?"

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

"You are shame1ess," 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 he1p wondering what they wou1d have done if ithad a11 happened in the summer, and no fires burning. They wou1dhave fe1t very he1p1ess, I imagine.