“I didn’t, either.  The chimney’s made to come out, and the bank’s my bank,” retorted Polly, indignantly.

“You took your money,—­your money you’ve been saving to buy the paint-box with, to buy this valentine for me?” asked Jane.

“Yes,” faltered Polly.

“And gave up the paint-box!  Oh, Polly, Polly, you’re a dear;” and Jane swooped down upon Polly with a tremendous hug.  Polly returned the embrace with ardor, and then, “Who d’ you s’pose,” she asked, “who d’ you s’pose sent me one jus’ exactly like yours?  It must be somebody that likes me jus’ as I like you, Janey.”

“Mrs. Banks wants you to go down to the parlor, Polly.  There’s some one to see you,” a voice interrupted here.

“To see me?” cried Polly.

“Yes,—­don’t stop to bother,—­run along.”  And Polly ran along as fast as her feet could carry her, wondering as she went who had come to see her, who had never in her life had a visitor before.  At the foot of the stairs she stopped in shy alarm.  Then she tiptoed across the hallway to the parlor threshold, and there she saw the lady who had been so kind to her in the shop.

“Oh, it’s you!” exclaimed Polly, joyfully.

The lady laughed, and held out her hand.  “Yes, it’s I,” she said.  “Did Jane get the valentine all right, and did she like it?”

Polly nodded, and then burst out with the story of her own valentine,—­“Jus’ like Janey’s!”

“And who d’ you s’pose sent it?” she asked confidingly, nestling against the lady’s knee.

“I think it must have been one of the good Saint Valentine’s messengers,” answered the lady.

Polly’s eyes opened very wide.  “Saint Valentine!  Tell me ’bout him,” she said.

“A very wise man has told about him,—­a man by the name of Wheatley,—­and he says that this Valentine was a good bishop who lived long ago, and so famous for his love and charity that after he died he was called Saint Valentine, and a festival was held on his birthday, when all the people would send love tokens to their friends.”

Polly’s face was radiant.  “Oh, I thought Valentine was a somebody very good, and that Valentine’s Day was his birthday.  I asked Jane if ’t wasn’t.  Oh, Janey, Janey!” running to the foot of the stairs in her excitement, “come down and hear ’bout Saint Valentine!”

“Polly!” said Mrs. Banks, reprovingly.

“Oh, don’t stop her,” cried the lady.  “I like to hear her, and I want to see Janey.”  After this there was nothing for Mrs. Banks to do but to send for Jane.  As the strong, womanly-looking girl entered the room, a new idea entered the lady’s mind.  “It’s the very thing,” she said to herself,—­“the very thing.”  At that instant carriage wheels were heard at the door, and the bell was rung sharply and impatiently.  “Oh, it must be my Elise,” said the lady.

The next instant the door was opened, and in hopped—­that is the only word to use—­a little lame girl of ten or eleven, lifting herself along by a crutch.  She was very pale, and her eyes were sunken with suffering; but she looked about her with a smile, and said in a quick, lively way,—­