Now, gentle reader, do not censure him, this George Addison, lover, for he straightway sent them back to her?  No, not that—­but this:  He deliberately—­although it gave him a pang—­arranged to dispose of them all as Christmas gifts to his friends and relatives.  It was after this fashion:  The hat-mark, G.A., done in violent yellow, on a glaring bit of blue satin, was hard to dispose of; but he finally thought of a little nephew—­the incarnation of a small devil—­so he wrote a note to the mother, inclosing the hat-mark, with this explanation:  “G.A., you must readily see, stands for ‘Good Always.’  What could be more appropriate for your darling child?”

The shaving papers, like Joseph’s coat of many colors, he sent to Uncle Hezekiah, an old family servant, who delighted in them, even until the hour of his happy death, unused, for who ever heard of using beautiful shaving papers!

The embroidered slippers, which had made up a trifle small, were mailed with much glee to a distant relative in Texas on a cattle ranch, where slippers were unnecessary—­but Addison did not consider himself responsible for that—­for he had discovered from personal experience that the less sensible the gift the more often it is given.

The onyx cuff buttons were well worn, and had rendered excellent service, although they were not good to look upon.  Yet, Jennings, the chiropodist, had taken a fancy to them long ago, so he concluded to let him have them on the one condition that they must not be worn to the house of the Hon. Junius Barlowe, where it was his custom to go on the third Sunday of every month, and never to the Addison house, which he visited on the second Thursday of each month.

The inkstand from Italy was large in promise, but poor in fulfillment—­the place for ink was infinitesimally small.  George tried to use it once when he had three important thoughts to transmit.  He wrote out two of them, but the third thought had to go dry.  There was a much decayed gentleman of the old school who lived across the street from the Addisons.  It had been the custom of George Addison’s grandfather, and father also, to always send this individual some useful gift on Christmas Day; therefore the inkstand from Italy was sent over the next morning.  It failed to give what might be termed complete satisfaction, but the old neighbor had not been satisfied for a small matter of fifty years.  Therefore George held himself, and he was perfectly right, blameless.

It was easy enough to slip the picture of a pretty Dancer, who, in that long ago day, was all the rage among the young men about town—­into the silver frame, heart-shape, but what could he do with her picture?  It was much prior to the time of the cigarette craze and cigarette pictures—­so he could not send it to one of those at that time uncreated establishments, to be copied and sent broadcast.  He was something of an artist.  He cleverly tinted the thing another color—­made her eyes blue