“Nolla, do you think anyone we know would send him a soft valentine and pretend it came from you?”
“Maybe—for a joke! Now who would do it?”
They asked Anne, and showed her the letter. She laughed with them, but when they were not present, she sat down and wrote to Jim—a nice sisterly letter cuttingly blunt that told him that she had her hands full with school and girls, and house, so that any extra care would drive her insane. Letters such as the one that came to Nolla, were the worst danger she had to ward off from the girls.
By the last mail on the thirteenth and during the day of the fourteenth other valentines came for Polly and Eleanor; some of real merit as tokens of friendship; some of beauty; and many with a little line of love. But Polly received no vague or sentimental one during Valentine’s day.
That evening, however, the bell rang, and Mrs. Stewart asked who was there. The girls were already upstairs.
“Messenger with a box.”
“Mother—wait till I get there!” called Anne, anxiously.
In another moment, Anne, in a negligée, ran downstairs and opened the street-door which opened into a vestibule.
A large long box was handed in and Anne signed the book. It was addressed to “Miss Polly Brewster, Studio, 1003 East Thirtieth Street, New York.”
“Polly, here’s a great box of flowers from someone,” Anne called, standing at the foot of the stairs.