"What will you give for it?" A deep red mounted to the young fellow's
cheeks.

"Anything, Jerry-Jo."

"A--kiss?"

"Yes"--doubtfully; "yes."

The book was in the outstretched hands, the hot kiss lay upon the smooth,
girlish neck, and then they looked at each other.

"It--is _his_ book?"

"No. Yours--I sent for it, myself."

"Oh! Jerry-Jo. And how did you know?"

"I copied it from that one of his."

Priscilla tore the wrappings asunder and saw that the book was a
duplicate of the one over which, long ago, she had loved and wept.

"Thank you, Jerry-Jo," the voice faltered; "but I wish it--had the tear
spot."

"That was _his_ book; this is yours." An angry light flashed in
Jerry-Jo's eyes. He had arranged this surprise with great pains and had
used all his savings.