"I'm afraid you can't send them, my dear. But we'll ask the doctor.
Perhaps, if they're disinfected—"
"Oh, horrors!" cried Midget; "a valentine disinfected! Of all things! Why, it would smell of that horrid sulphur stuff instead of a sweet violet scent! Nobody would want that sort of a valentine."
"No, they wouldn't," agreed Delight. "Oh, dear, it's too bad!"
"Never mind, Delight," said Marjorie. "We can send valentines to each other, and to Miss Hart, and to your mother. Oh, yes, and to Maggie and Mary. I guess that's about all. But everybody can send them to us! That will be lots of fun! It seems selfish, doesn't it, to get lots of valentines and not send any? But it isn't selfish, because we can't help it."
"I can send to my friends in New York," said Delight, thoughtfully, "by letting father get them and send them. I can telephone him a list, you know. It isn't as much fun as if I picked them out myself, but I don't want the girls to think I've forgotten them."
"If they know about the quarantine, they won't open the valentines," suggested Marjorie; "they'll think they came from this house, and they'll be frightened."
"That's so," agreed Delight; "unless they look at the postmark and it's
New York."
"Well, then, if they don't know your father's writing, they'll never know they came from you anyway."
"No, they won't. But then people never are supposed to know who sends a valentine."
"Then what's the good of sending any?"