"What will you give for it?" A deep red mounted to the young fellow's cheeks.
"Anything, Jerry-Jo."
"A—kiss?"
"Yes"—doubtfully; "yes."
The book was in the outstretched hands, the hot kiss lay upon the smooth, girlish neck, and then they looked at each other.
"It—is his book?"
"No. Yours—I sent for it, myself."
"Oh! Jerry-Jo. And how did you know?"
"I copied it from that one of his."
Priscilla tore the wrappings asunder and saw that the book was a duplicate of the one over which, long ago, she had loved and wept.