"I believe you wrote it yourself!"
"No, I didn't. At least I mustn't tell just yet. I'm going to read the last one now.
"TO PRISSIE
"I am not sentimental, please,
I cannot write in rhyme,
I beg you'll all ecstatics leave
Until another time.
"But if I'm lacking in romance,
At least my heart is true,
And in its own prosaic way,
It only beats for you.
"'Mong damsels all I think you are
The nicest little Missie,
And beg to have for Valentine
That sweetest maid, Miss Prissie."
"Author! Author!" cried Prissie. "It's Lilias, I do believe!"
"Guessing's been horribly wrong!" said Gowan. "Only about one of you was right. Shall I read the list?
"To Phillida by Dulcie.
To Lilias by Noreen.
To Gowan by myself.
To Bertha by Phillida.
To Noreen by Prissie.
To Dulcie by Bertha.
To Edith by Lilias.
To Prissie by Edith."
"So you wrote your own, Gowan! What a humbug you are! You quite put us off the scent!"
"Well, I drew my own name, you see. I had to write something! Bertha ought to have a prize for guessing right, only we've nothing to give her. Shall we play something else?"
"Prissie's brought a pack of cards, and she says she'll tell our fortunes," proclaimed Edith.
"I learnt how in the holidays," confessed Prissie. "A girl was staying with us who had a book about it. We used to have ripping fun every evening over it. Whose fortune shall I tell first? Oh, don't all speak at once! Look here, you'd better each cut, and the lowest shall win."