. "Why, mother," he said, "I did not
know that _you_ were in the valentine business!"

"There hasn't been a fourteenth of February since I can remember,"
answered his mother smiling, "that I haven't sent out at least one
valentine. Do you know what Valentine Day means, Davie?"

"It means sending funny pictures to the other fellows," grinned Davie.

"First of all, it means a Love Day," said Mrs. Forbes, "and valentines
are supposed to be sweethearts' love letters. But I don't see why
sweethearts should have a corner on love, do you, Davie?"

[Illustration: _Davie helps mother deliver a new kind of valentine._]

"What sort of valentines do you send, mother?" asked the little boy.
His curiosity had waked him up and made him forget that the hands of
the clock had left his bedtime far behind.

"My valentines used to be made of little pictures cut out and pasted
on a card or a piece of note paper, when I was no older than you,"
said Davie's mother; "and my mother used to write on them in her fine,
copy-book hand, little verses like this:

"'The rose is red,
The violet's blue,
Sugar's sweet,
And so are you!'"

Davie laughed aloud at the idea of his mother ever having been such a
little girl.

"And then, when I was in my teens," she went on, "I saved my dimes and
bought fine valentines made of silver paper cut into hearts and
cupids, with what I thought beautiful 'poetry' printed on them."

"And what are your valentines like now?" asked Davie.

"You'll find them rather heavy, I'm afraid," said his mother merrily;
"you see, Davie, I have found out that Love has something else to do
besides playing with silver hearts and cupids, though that's all right
too. There are some poor and tired and lonely people in the world who
don't want you to give them money, or to offer them help on most days
of the year; it hurts their feelings. But on love-days, like
Christmas, and Thanksgiving, and Valentine's Day, you can give them a
love gift, and they are pleased. I have some like that for you to
carry around to-morrow."

When Davie came downstairs early the next morning, he brought with
him one of his cherished "Peter Rabbit" books. "Mother," he said, "I
want to begin to keep Valentine Day like you do."

So "Peter Rabbit" found himself tucked in Mrs. Tobin's bundle for Jack
Tobin, who had never had that sort of valentine, or indeed any sort,
in his life. And it was queer how all day long the thought of that ne