“Then there must be some mistake,” said the Master uneasily. “But no! Here we are.” He produced his faithful note book from his pocket and fumbled its pages until he came to the one devoted to the R’s, and pointed to the words he had written over a month before, “Randall, J.—landscape;” after which he had scribbled with a blue pencil the words “Accepted” and “John.” “You did not give me your first name when I wrote this here, so I copied it down afterwards from your picture when I saw that it was safely and desirably hung. You see that it’s all right after all: you almost made me feel for the moment as though there were some error.” “But there is a mistake!” groaned the young man in his agony, “my first name is Joseph, not John, and you have protected some body else whose last name and initial happen to be the same as mine.” “_’Cre nom de nom!_” whistled the master profanely. * * * * * John Randall—an American from Vermont—returned from the Salon on Varnishing Day. He sat down and wrote to his people across the water, telling them triumphantly the news of his acceptance—the bare fact of which he had cabled to them the week before. He described graphically the memorable opening day, and thus ended up his letter: “You have heard no doubt long ago that I have passed the difficult test of the Salon jury, and that my very first picture has been accepted. I am all the more pleased and proud over the result because it was received _solely on its own merits_. I painted it by myself, without any outside advice or criticism, and did not solicit the protection of the professors of the school, as I found, to my disgust, so many of my comrades were engaged in doing. Besides the fact of getting in under these circumstances, I am also pleased to be able to tell you that the hanging committee have seen fit to give me one of the very best places in the whole Salon—in the Gallery of Honor. Having done so well with my first picture, I feel that I am fully justified in anticipating a like measure of success with my second. Give my love to all at home, and believe me, Most affectionately your, JOHN RANDALL.” —_Clinton Peters._ [Illustration] A VALENTINE. I send my heart across the years to you! With all its humanness and all its waste; With all that yet is tender and is true, Though time has triumphed and youth’s hope disgraced. What though the snows are gathered on the ground, And bare the bough within the aching chill? I think of you—and in my ear a sound Breaks, and enraptures with its April thrill! I hear the trailing hem of laggard Spring, And daffodils seem leaning to my hand, And on the air I glimpse the eager wing Of birds that wander from a softer land.