"Certainly, my dear," she replied; then, addressing Mrs. Burbage—"Shall I light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell on your eyes."
"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly. Though your hall is uncommonly dark."
Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.
There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since she had left. He had given her note to Burbage.
"Carry out these directions implicitly," he had said. But Burbage allowed herself latitude; the directory gave Mrs. Farquharson's address—and here, rather than to Saint Ruth's she had brought the valentines—eager to see her darling,—now a bride.
Phyllis chatted happily with her for an hour. She spoke affectionately of her uncle. "It will all come out right in the end," she concluded.
Burbage promised to come often to see her.
"My pretty," she whispered, as she held Phyllis's hand, in parting, "I warn you of this Mrs. Farquharson. A woman with eyes like hers is not to be trusted."
The framed valentines were hung when John came home. Thus they were the first of their Lares and Penates; the first of the pretty things that made a home of lodgings.
"Ah, John, you have no idea how I love my old valentines," said Phyllis that evening, as they looked around the rooms. "I love them dearly for themselves—as well as for their association with my mother. Aren't they sweet and pretty?"