“What’s the matter?” said papa briskly, picking up his little boy.  “Lonesome?  Too bad!  Thought you went to Aunt Lucy’s with Esther.”

“I didn’t want to,” said Harlis, breaking out in big, shaking sobs.

Papa knew something was wrong, then, and by degrees the story came out.

Papa said very little, for he seemed to understand the real suffering Harlis had already gone through because of his wrongdoings.

“But the nickel was mine,” said Harlis, as he and mamma were talking it over.

“Was it?” said mamma.  “What did I give it to you for?”

“For the poor little girl.”

“You can put it back, but you must earn it,” she said.

“Oh, I will!  I will!” Harlis was only too glad to do this.  “And I’ll never do so again, mamma.”

And his mamma felt sure he never would.

—­Written for Dew Drops by Florence Maule.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT OF A SMILE.

If it drizzles and pours,
Is there any reason
The weather indoors
Should be dull, like the season? 
There is something makes bright
The cloudiest places;
Can you guess?  ’Tis the light
Of the smiles on your faces.
—­Selected.

* * * * *

Mother’s Valentines

By Elizabeth P. Allan

“Davie boy, I wish you would get up early to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Forbes; “I want your help in sending out some valentines.”

Davie opened his sleepy eyes wide.  “Why, mother,” he said, “I did not know that you were in the valentine business!”

“There hasn’t been a fourteenth of February since I can remember,” answered his mother smiling, “that I haven’t sent out at least one valentine.  Do you know what Valentine Day means, Davie?”

“It means sending funny pictures to the other fellows,” grinned Davie.

“First of all, it means a Love Day,” said Mrs. Forbes, “and valentines are supposed to be sweethearts’ love letters.  But I don’t see why sweethearts should have a corner on love, do you, Davie?”

[Illustration:  Davie helps mother deliver a new kind of valentine.]

“What sort of valentines do you send, mother?” asked the little boy.  His curiosity had waked him up and made him forget that the hands of the clock had left his bedtime far behind.

“My valentines used to be made of little pictures cut out and pasted on a card or a piece of note paper, when I was no older than you,” said Davie’s mother; “and my mother used to write on them in her fine, copy-book hand, little verses like this: 

    “’The rose is red,
    The violet’s blue,
    Sugar’s sweet,
    And so are you!’”

Davie laughed aloud at the idea of his mother ever having been such a little girl.

“And then, when I was in my teens,” she went on, “I saved my dimes and bought fine valentines made of silver paper cut into hearts and cupids, with what I thought beautiful ‘poetry’ printed on them.”