Cal. M-m-iss Lel-land.
A. H. Calup, that letter’s for me. Give it to me this minute.
Cal. (holding it behind him). It aint a letter; it’s a valentine. It’s got all sorts of pretty figures on the envelope. Promise, Aunt Hannah, that you’ll let me see the inside of it, and I’ll give it to you right off.
A. H. (rising, and laying knitting on the table). I shan’t make any promises. Give me that letter, Calup. (Cal. runs round stage with letter. His aunt, running after him, tries in vain to catch him.)
Mrs. L. (from outside). Ca-leb! Ca-leb!
Cal. (darting across the room in a tantalizing way, lays letter on the table). By the time you get it read, Aunt Hannah, I’ll be back all ready to see it.
(Exit, R.)
A. H. (takes letter eagerly, and sits down, L. C.). It is a valentine, as sure as I’m alive. Who could have sent it? (Reads.)
“My dearest One: This is St. Valentine’s, the day when every person is privileged to write tender epistles to their loved ones. So I have seated myself to write to you. I did think of asking you a question which my past attentions have, no doubt, led you to expect. But, on second thoughts, I have concluded to call on you and ask the question in person. I am sure you will have no difficulty in recognizing
“Your Devoted Valentine.”