The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St. Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress. They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague, momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other— But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face, exclaiming, “Here is a missive for _you_ from Eugene! You know the writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.” “Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe, trembled a little. She took the note and read—to _herself_. I who love you duly, truly, Dare to tell you so to-day; Sweetest maiden, though love-laden, Bolder souls beset your way. Do you hear? While the earnest, eager voices Vow their passion and their truth, I, too, bend in adoration Of the splendor of your youth. Do you care? And because your lightest whisper Chains my spirit as a spell, Oh, because your smile is dearer To my heart than I can tell, _Will_ you love me? In my memory I have throned you, Thinking of you every hour; Dear young Kitty, I adore you, Ah! forget your tyrant power. _Try_ to love me! E. L. A sudden smile, brilliant in its gladness, swept over the maiden’s face as she read; but then remembering somewhat, she arose, and hastily flung the perfumed note within the grate, saying, “The impudence of those village boys is unpardonable; neither of us know them much more than by sight, and they have no right to presume so far!” But though she spoke so pettishly, Kitty’s smile, as she read the quoted love-lay, had not escaped Lucy’s notice, and she said quietly in reply, “My dear, Eugene Lind is not a _boy_, and I don’t think his writing to you _this_ day a piece of presumption either.” At night-fall, when Kitty sat alone, another epistle was laid before her, which she read from beginning to end in such a state of bewilderment as may be “imagined but not described.”