"I? Oh, I choose children I know,—boys, always."
An outburst of laughter greeted this declaration; and in the midst of it Kate said gayly, with a little confidential nod to Dorothea, "It's currants and raisins again, Dorothea."
The gay tone of good-fellowship, the confidential nod and smile took Dorothea so by surprise that for the moment her ready speech failed her. What she had thought, what she might have said if she had not thus been surprised into silence, was something in her usual truculent vein, with a very decided declaration of sympathy with Lily's choice. But surprised and silent for the moment, she was all ready to agree with Myra Donaldson, who followed Kate's remark with a laughing confession that she too had chosen "boys always,"—that she thought that was the customary, the proper valentine way. And agreeing with Myra in an emphatic "It is—it always has been the proper valentine way," Dorothea was again surprised at the gentleness of Kate's tone as she disagreed,—as she said:
"Oh, no, no, Dorothea; the good old Bishop Wheatley didn't mean that it was nothing but a sweethearting custom, for there is another record that says distinctly that the early Church looked upon that custom as one of the pagan practices, and observed the day as a real Saint's Day, when one chose a particular patron saint for the year and called him, or her, my 'valentine.' And it was in that way that I chose dear old Aunt Katrine for my valentine last year."
"And I chose my dear Mr. Kolb, my first music-teacher," said Hope, looking up brightly. "He taught me to play on that little violin I was telling you about," glancing at Kate with a significant smile. Dorothea saw the smile, and instantly said to herself: "She's told her,—she's told her all that Mayflower and fiddle story, every word of it, I can see by their looks. I wonder if she's told the other girls?"
But what was that that Myra Donaldson was referring to?—something that had evidently brought up all this talk. Dorothea had lost a sentence or two in her momentary preoccupation over Hope and Kate; but now catching the words "It's to be a valentine party as usual," she asked eagerly,—
"Whose party is it,—who gives it?"
"Bessie Armitage. The fourteenth of February is her birthday, and she always has a party on that day, or on the evening of the day. She hasn't sent her invitations out yet, but she will next week. I went to her last year's party, and it was such a pretty party, wasn't it?" looking at Kate and Hope, who at once gave cordial agreement that it was a very pretty party. "But you'll see for yourself this year, Dorothea," Myra went on, "for I suppose Miss Marr will let us go, as she did last winter, though it is stretching a point to go to any party outside; but Bessie has been here so long—she was only ten when she first came to Miss Marr's—that she has exceptions made in her favor; and then these birthday-parties of hers are always early parties, and that makes a great difference."
A party,—a Valentine party at Bessie Armitage's! Dorothea couldn't, for the life of her, keep the hot angry color from rushing to her face as she heard the name of Armitage; and her first thought was: "Catch me going to a party at his home, where I've got to be polite to him!" At the next thought,—the thought that her refusal to go would be thoroughly understood by Raymond himself, would be taken by him as a direct cut and snub, her spirits rose, and a little triumphant smile began to curl her lips.
"Look at Dorothea! She's planning some mischief," laughed Myra, who had noted the sudden change in her opposite neighbor's face. All eyes were now indeed turned upon Dorothea.