AMY’S VALENTINE.
“John,” said little Amy, “did you ever send a valentine to anybody?”
John, the gardener, looked rather sheepish, and dug his spade into the geranium bed. “Well, miss,” he said, “I have done such things when I were a lad. Most lads do, I suppose, miss.”
Oh, that sly old John! He knew perfectly well that he had a valentine in his pocket at that moment, a great crimson heart, in a lace-trimmed envelope, directed to Susan, the pretty housemaid. But there was no need of saying anything about that to little miss, he thought.
“If you were not so very old, John,” continued Amy, looking seriously at him, “I should ask you to send me one, because my Papa is away, and I have no brothers, and I don’t know any lads, as you call them. But I suppose you are altogether too old, aren’t you, John?”
John straightened his broad shoulders and looked down rather comically at the tiny mite at his feet. “Why, Miss Amy,” he said, “whatever does make you think I be so very old? Your Papa is a good bit older than I be, miss.”
“My Papa!” cried Amy, opening her eyes very wide. “Why, John! you told me yourself that you were a hundred years old. And I know my Papa isn’t nearly so old as that!”
The gardener laughed. “More shame to me, miss,” he said, “for telling you what wasn’t true. Sure it’s only in fun I was, Miss Amy, dear, for I’m not forty years old yet, let alone a hundred. But I hear Mary calling you to your dinner; so run up to the house now, missy, and don’t think too much of what old John says to you.”