It was
almost like having a birthday. On the top of the parcels was an envelope
addressed in a disguised handwriting. It contained a sheet of pink paper
bearing the picture of a heart pierced by an arrow, while Cupid drew his
bow in the distance. Underneath was written:
"Sweet Merle, of Durracombe the belle,
Accept this heart that loves you well:
A heart most tender, kind, and true,
That lives and beats for only you!
'Twere cruel in this faithful heart
To plant and fix so big a dart,
So heal its wound I beg and pray,
And be my VALENTINE to-day!"
The sender, as is usual in valentines, remained anonymous, and Merle
could only guess at the authorship, though she had strong suspicions of
Daddy and taxed him with it.
"St. Valentine never lets out secrets!" he twinkled. "He's a most
discreet old gentleman. People don't make as much use of him as formerly.
Very foolish of them, for he came in extremely handy. It's a pity to let
good old customs drop. A St. Valentine revival society might be rather a
good idea.
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