“When on this page your beauteous eyes,” &c.

Esther Dearborn wrote in Clover’s book:  “The better part of Valor is Discretion.”  Why she wrote it, nobody knew, or why it was more applicable to Clover than to any one else; but the sentiment proved popular, and was repeated over and over again, above various neatly written signatures.  There was a strife as to who should display the largest collection.  Some of the girls sent home for autographs of distinguished persons, which they pasted in their books.  Rose Red, however, out-did them all.

“Did I ever show you mine?” she asked one day, when most of the girls were together in the school-room.

“No, never!” cried a number of voices.  “Have you got one?  Oh, do let us see it.”

“Certainly, I’ll get it right away, if you like,” said Rose, obligingly.

She went to her room, and returned with a shabby old blank book in her hand.  Some of the girls looked disappointed.

“The cover of mine isn’t very nice,” explained Rose.  “I’m going to have it rebound one of these days.  You see it’s not a new album at all, nor a school album; but it’s very valuable to me.”  Here she heaved a sentimental sigh.  “All my friends have written in it,” she said.

The girls were quite impressed by the manner in which Rose said this.  But, when they turned over the pages of the album, they were even more impressed.  Rose had evidently been on intimate terms with a circle of most distinguished persons.  Half the autographs in the book were from gentlemen, and they were dated all over the world.

“Just listen to this!” cried Louisa, and she read,—­

   “Thou may’st forget me, but never, never shall I forget thee!”
                                             Alphonso of Castile. 
    The Escurial, April 1st.

’Who’s he?” asked a circle of awe-struck girls.

“Didn’t you ever hear of him?  Youngest brother of the King of Spain,” replied Rose carelessly.

“Oh, my! and just hear this,” exclaimed Annie Silsbie.

If you ever deign to cast a thought in my direction, Miss Rose,
remember me always as
Thy devoted servitor,
Potemkin Montmorency.

St. Petersburg, July 10th.

“And this,” shrieked Alice White.

“They say love is a thorn, I say it is a dart,
And yet I cannot tear thee from my heart.” 
Antonio, Count of Vallambrosa.

“Do you really and truly know a Count?” asked Bella, backing away from Rose with eyes as big as saucers.

“Know Antonio de Vallambrosa!  I should think I did,” replied Rose.  “Nobody in this country knows him so well, I fancy.”

“And he wrote that for you?”

“How else could it get into my book, goosey?”

This was unanswerable; and Rose was installed from that time forward in the minds of Bella and the rest as a heroine of the first water.  Katy, however, knew better; and the first time she caught Rose alone she attacked her on the subject.