When the two midnight visitors stole timorously forth a moment later, Bea’s eyes traveled wistfully toward the big envelope lying squarely on top of all the valentines.
Berta regarded her keenly. “Why don’t you march up and read the name, if you want to so much?” was her blunt question.
“She must be pretty fond of somebody,” whispered Bea, “if she stayed up till now just to write valentines for her. I wish——”
“Do you think it is sneaking to look?” persisted Berta. “If she objected to having it seen, she might have turned it address down.”
“It is address down,” murmured Bea, sadly, “and I know it would be dishonorable to try to see it. She herself would call any act like that contemptible.”
At this crisis Berta sneezed—sneezed hard and long and with suspicious vehemence. And when Bea cast one lingering farewell glance toward the caldron, she perceived that the topmost missives were sliding over the edge in the breeze raised by that gusty sneeze. The big square envelope tumbled clumsily down upon its back and lay staring, quite close to the flickering gas. Bea’s wilful eyes rested on it one illuminating instant, and then leaped away, while her cheeks whitened suddenly. The name on the valentine was that of the senior herself.
Poor little Bea! After the first dazed moment she began to select and gather up the fifteen valentines which she had deposited five minutes before.
“Why, Beatrice Leigh!” gasped Berta. “You haven’t any right to take them back after you have mailed them!”
“Do you imagine for one moment that I shall give valentines to a girl who sends them to herself? And the senior who receives the most is declared the most popular in the class!”
“But—but,” stammered Berta, “perhaps she thought—perhaps she didn’t think——”