The need of secrecy, and the trouble of selecting appropriate lines for each of their friends, took time. But Eleanor wired her father to keep the secret and do the mailing for them, and he wired back his consent.

So the valentines meant for the Chicago friends went to Mr. Maynard, and duly reached each one as had been intended.

And those for Jim and Ken were handed to a porter on the train that ran to New Haven, with a liberal tip if he would drop them in a letter-box when he jumped from the train. His wide grin showed he was ready to abet the pranks such generous pretty young misses planned to tease their beaux.

Elizabeth Dalken had taken a violent fancy to Jim Latimer when she met him at the different Christmas parties, and Valentine's Day being an opportunity for love-lorn misses and youths, she bought a very expensive Valentine, with sentiment as soft as down, and suggestive of heart-aches and sighs and what-not.

But Elizabeth had no independence, whatever, and once she had the Valentine boxed and ready to post, she wished she knew someone who would address it. She feared to have her own cramped writing seen on it.

In Mrs. Wellington's school was a clever girl who could imitate hand-writing to perfection, and Elizabeth presented her with a box of bon-bons a few days before Valentine's Day. Then the following day she asked a favor. Would Myrtle address a box for her?

Myrtle comprehended, but the candies had been delicious so she laughed: "Got a valentine to send?"

"Yes, but it is a joke. I want the receiver to believe Eleanor Maynard sent it. Can you imitate her writing?"

"Easy as pie. Get me her exercise from this noon's cla.s.s."

And in short order the box was addressed in Eleanor's hand-writing.

Elizabeth mailed it, and the day following the 14th, Jim mailed, what he considered, a lover's work of art-such ardent lines and such sentiment seldom entered his thoughts, but the mushy words of the valentine excused his letter.

"W-e-ll-Jim's gone clean mad!" gasped Eleanor.

"Is the thick letter from him?" asked Polly.

"Yes, but read it, Poll, and tell me what ails him."

Polly read, but not without giggles and many a lifted eyebrow when she came to the extra fine phrases of love-making.

"Nolla, he sure is daffy. Can you see through it?"

"Not at all. I expected a comic from him-not this."

"Nolla, do you think anyone we know would send him a soft valentine and pretend it came from you?"

"Maybe-for a joke! Now who would do it?"

They asked Anne, and showed her the letter. She laughed with them, but when they were not present, she sat down and wrote to Jim-a nice sisterly letter cuttingly blunt that told him that she had her hands full with school and girls, and house, so that any extra care would drive her insane. Letters such as the one that came to Nolla, were the worst danger she had to ward off from the girls.

By the last mail on the thirteenth and during the day of the fourteenth other valentines came for Polly and Eleanor; some of real merit as tokens of friendship; some of beauty; and many with a little line of love. But Polly received no vague or sentimental one during Valentine's day.

That evening, however, the bell rang, and Mrs. Stewart asked who was there. The girls were already upstairs.

"Messenger with a box."

"Mother-wait till I get there!" called Anne, anxiously.

In another moment, Anne, in a negligee, ran downstairs and opened the street-door which opened into a vestibule.

A large long box was handed in and Anne signed the book. It was addressed to "Miss Polly Brewster, Studio, 1003 East Thirtieth Street, New York."

"Polly, here's a great box of flowers from someone," Anne called, standing at the foot of the stairs.

"For me?"

"Your name is on the tag," said Anne.

Instantly, Polly and Eleanor scrambled downstairs and Polly tremblingly tried to untie the string about the box.

"Dear me-it won't even break!" said she, trying to tear the cord by pulling at it.

"Here-take the knife!" cried Eleanor, having dashed to the dining-room to catch up a silver knife, and returning with it.

The string was cut, the lid taken off, and several wrappers of oiled paper removed. Then, there, upon a bed of lace-paper rested a dozen of magnificent American Beauties, with stems more than a yard long. And to the cl.u.s.ter, about the middle of the stems, was attached a fine golden cord holding a papier mache heart. The heart had a golden arrow half-buried in its plump center.

"What wonderful roses!" breathed Polly.

"Isn't the heart cute!" giggled Eleanor.

"No card, or sign, to say where they came from?" asked Anne, picking the heart up carefully.

"Oh, there's another heart-see! On the point of the arrow at the back,"

cried Eleanor. And there was another heart fastened to the first one by means of the sharp arrow.

The girls sought carefully for some clue of the sender, but the sweet perfume wafted from the roses was all that rewarded their search.

"Whoever it was, he is a dear!" said Polly, fondly touching the waxen stems.

"And we'll try to keep them as long as possible so, whoever it was, will see that we appreciate the flowers," said Anne, going for water.

"At last I have found a use for that tall vase I bought that first week of auctions," laughed Eleanor, taking the gla.s.s from under the window-seat.

Scarcely were the roses arranged to satisfy the admiring group, when the bell rang again. Eleanor being nearest the door, ran out to the small vestibule and peeped through the window in the street-door.

"Well, of all things! Another messenger. Maybe he has a valentine for me."

The door was opened, Eleanor said "yes" to his query if Mrs. Stewart lived there, and having signed the book, hurried in with a tier of boxes. There were four in all.

"Miss Anne Stewart the first on top," read Polly.

The second was for Mrs. Stewart, and the third for Polly, the last being Eleanor's. Each box contained a beautiful spray of cut flowers but no card. Not even a suggestion of the sender.

"Well, it beats all. Why couldn't our admirers have sent our flowers in the morning," laughed Anne.

Again the bell pealed. "It surely can't be more flowers!" laughed Polly, running to the door. But it was. A card on the outside read: "Say it with Flowers," to Miss Anne Stewart.

By this time everyone was laughing and trying to guess who could have sent the blossoms. And had the bell sounded again, no one would have been surprised. But it didn't, and after guessing of all impossible persons who might be the senders of the flower-valentines, Anne ventured: "Someone may have telegraphed to New York this morning, you know, to send us these flowers, at once. I've heard said, the florists were so rushed to-day with valentine orders that they couldn't secure enough flowers from the wholesale shops."

"That's about it!" declared Eleanor. "John sent you this last box, and maybe Daddy sent us each the smaller boxes. But _who_ could have sent Polly a hundred dollars' worth of American Beauties?"

Finally they went to bed with the great question still unsolved; and Polly often wondered, thereafter, if Mr. Dalken could have sent her those roses? Had she guessed the truth, would she have been content to go on so serenely with her studies of interior decorating?