them, whole boxes full of them. I loved them best of all my playthings. Sometimes my papa called me his little Valentine, but they named me Phyllis, after my grandmamma, my papa's mamma. Why, Uncle Peter, she was your mamma, too, wasn't she?" Phyllis, sitting on Sir Peter's lap, regarded him gravely, with new interest. In the end, however, she returned to the subject. All the valentines—boxes and boxes of them—were to be brought to her, if Uncle Peter pleased.

SHE WAS YOUR MAMMA, TOO, WASN'T SHE?

His bookseller bought in the valentines for Sir Peter.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson, when he read the order.

The sale catalogue described it as one of the most remarkable collections ever brought together, and intimated that the Museum should take advantage of a rare opportunity.

Another dealer was commissioned to buy one of Robert's pictures.

"Any one,—the best. Use your own judgment," said Sir Peter.

It was a charming study, unfinished, of course, that came the next afternoon: a boat, rolling heavily in gray water; and seen through mist, the great brown sail, looming, shadowy; one sailor, in a red jersey, at the tiller. In the corner Robert had scrawled his careless signature and the words,—"Valfjeldet, Norway, 1897." Sir Peter gently laid the picture upon the glowing coals of the grate.

"There are six boxes come from Mr. Rowlandson's shop, sir," said his housekeeper standing quietly behind him.

"Have the screws removed and send them up to Miss Phyllis's room," he replied. "They are old valentines, Burbage, old valentines that belonged to her m——for which she has a childish fondness."

II

"Doesn't it seem to you that the windows let in more sunlight of late, ma'am?" asked a housemaid. She had just finished cleaning those in the octagonal dining-room. Burbage inspected the windows.

"There is no change in the windows that I can see," she replied. "But there's more sunlight in the house than in many a year."

This comment of his old housekeeper, six weeks after Sir Peter brought Phyllis home, might be accepted as the epitome of her life there for ten long years. Sir Peter was as grim as ever to the servants; but, bless your heart, 

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