t
image should love present itself? The right thought came to him by
and by; and taking from his storeroom an ornamental basket with a
top to it, he went out to his pigeon house and selected two blue
squabs. They were tender and soft and round; without harshness,
cruelty, or deception. Whatever they seemed to be, that they were;
and all that they were was good.

But as Ambrose walked back to the house, he lifted the top of the
basket and could but admit that they did look bare. Might they
not, as a love token, be--unrefined? He crossed to a flower bed,
and, pulling a few rose-geranium leaves, tucked them here and there
about the youngsters.

It was not his intention to present these to Harriet in person: he
had accompanied the cream--he would follow the birds; they should
precede him twenty-four hours and the amative poison would have a
chance to work.

During that forenoon his shining buggy drawn by his roan mare,
herself symbolic of softness, drew up before the entrance of the
Conyers homestead. Ambrose alighted; he lifted the top of the
basket--all was well.

"These pets are for your Miss Harriet," he said to the maid who
answered his ring.

As the maid took the basket through the hall after having watched
him drive away, incredulous as to her senses, she met Mrs. Conyers,
who had entered the hall from a rear veranda.

"Who rang?" she asked; "and what is that?"

The maid delivered her instructions. Mrs. Conyers took the basket
and looked in.

"Have them broiled for my supper," she said with a little click of
the teeth, and handing the basket to the maid, passed on into her
bedroom.

Harriet had been spending the day away from home. She returned
late. The maid met her at the front door and a few moments of
conversation followed. She hurried into the supper room; Mrs.
Conyers sat alone.

"Mother," exclaimed Harriet with horror, "have you _eaten_ my
squabs?"

Mrs. Conyers stabbed at a little pile of bones on the side plate.
"This is what is left of them," she said, touching a napkin to her
gustatory lips. "There are your leaves," she added, pointing to a
little vase in front of Harriet's plate. "When is he going to send
you some more? But tell him we have geraniums."

The next day Ambrose received a note:

"Dear Mr. Webb: I have been thinking how pleasant my visit to you
was that morning. It has not been possible for me to get the
carriage since or I should have been out to thank you f