Unluckaly, he was rather blonde, and had
a dimple in his chin. But he looked exactly as though his name
ought to be Harold.
I may say here that I chose "Harold," not because it is a
favorite name of mine, but because it is romantic in sound. Also
because I had never known any one named Harold and it seemed
only discrete.
I took it home in my muff and put it under my pillow where
Hannah would find it and probably take it to mother. I wanted to
buy a ring too, to hang on a ribbon around my neck. But the
violets had made a fearful hole in my thirteen dollars.
I borrowed a stub pen at the stationer's and I wrote on the
photograph, in large, sprawling letters, "To _you_ from _me_."
"There," I said to myself, when I put it under the pillow.
"You look like a photograph, but you are really a bomb-shell."
As things eventuated, it was. More so, indeed.
Mother sent for me when I came in. She was sitting in front
of her mirror, having the vibrater used on her hair, and her
manner was changed. I guessed that there had been a family
Counsel over the poem, and that they had decided to try
kindness.
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