“Make a pillow of them,” it said, “they are of nice, stiff paper
and will make up nicely.”
Happy thought; I brightened up wonderfully, and planned to
go shopping that very afternoon to find a cover for them. It must
be of yellow silk, I reasoned, to harmonize with the furnishings
we had planned for “our” sitting room. As luck would have it I
met Charlie just in front of the store, and he went in with me. At
last I found just what I wanted, a remnant of silk of the softest
yellow ground, figured over with sweet-brier roses. I knew
Charlie was wishing with all his might that I would tell him what
I intended to make of it, so I told him it was for a cushion cover,
but did not say any more, and changed the subject as soon as
possible.
To tell the truth, I felt the little brown thorns on the roses prick
ing my conscience already for having a secret that I could not tell
Charlie. It was not till I was in my own room that the appropri
ateness of that yellow cover carelessly strewn with sweet-briar
roses and little thorns dawned upon me, but that would make it all
the more mysteriously romantic, and I would never tell a soul
but Nell, my best girl chum and bridesmaid elect. The next day I
sat, tailor fashion, before the little cupboard and clipped and clipped
and clipped. Of course, it was not without many iittle pangs of
heartache that I read them for the last time and then made them
unreadable forever, but there was a great deal t of consolation m
the fact that I could keep them and no one would know. I could
lay my cheek against them and think, and if Charlie ever became so
unromantic as to say anything cross I could put my head on those
dear letters and cry, knowing that they held balm enough for
twenty broken hearts, and would never tell on me.
Time passed, and the pillow at last found a resting place on a
handsome couch where its colors were in perfect harmony with
the whole room. It was Charlie’s favorite pillow. He called it his
balm pillow,” and as he rubbed his hand caressingly over it,
would often ask, “What’s it stuffed with, excelsior ?”
I could not look at him fairly as I answered, “No, it’s something
better than excelsior or feathers.” He said I looked dreadfully