“I wish I knew for very certain,” the Little Lover murmured, wistfully. The licorice-stick was so shiny and black, and he had laid his tongue on it one sweet instant, so he knew just how good it tasted. If he only knew for very certain—of course there was a chance that She did not love licorice sticks. It would be a regular pity to waste it. Still, how could anybody not love ’em—  
“’Course She does!” exclaimed the Little Lover, with sudden conviction, and the struggle was ended. It had only been a question of Her liking¹ or not liking. That decided², there was no further hesitation³. He held up the licorice-stick and traced a wavery little line round it with his finger-nail. The line was pretty near one of its ends—the end towards the Little Lover’s mouth.
 
“I’ll suck as far down as that, just ’xactly,” he said; “then I’ll put it away in the Treasury⁴ Box.”
 
He sat down in his little rocker and gave himself up to the moment’s bliss⁵, first applying his lips with careful exactitude to the dividing-line between Her licorice stick and his.
 
The moment of bliss ended, the Little Lover got out the Treasury Box and added the moist, shortened licorice-stick to the other treasures in it. There were many of them,—an odd assortment⁶ that would have made any one else smile. But the Little Lover was not smiling. His small face was grave first, then illumined with the light of willing sacrifice. The treasures were all so beautiful! She would be so pleased,—my, my, how please She would be! Of course She would like the big golden alley⁷ the best,—the very best. But the singing-top was only a tiny little way behind in its power to charm. Perhaps She had never seen a singing-top—think o’ that! Perhaps She had never had a great golden alley, or a corkscrew jack-knife, or a canary-bird whistle, or a red and white “Kandy Kiss,”—or a licorice-stick! Think o’ that—think of how pleased She would be!
 
“’Course She will,” laughed the Little Lover in his delight. If he only dared to give Her the Treasury Box! If he only knew how! If there was somebody he could ask,—but the housekeeper⁸ was too old, and Uncle Larry would laugh. There was nobody.
 
The waiting wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the red-cheeked pear in the Treasury Box, and the softest apple. They made it a little dang’rous to wait.
 
It had not been very long that he had loved Her. The first Sunday that She smiled at him across the aisle⁹ was the beginning. He had not gone to sleep that Sunday, nor since, on any of the smiling Sundays. He had not wanted to. It had been rest enough to sit and watch Her from the safe shelter of the housekeeper’s silken cloak. Her clear, fresh profile, Her pretty hair, Her ear, Her throat—he liked to watch them all. It was rest enough,—as if, after that, he could have gone to sleep!
 
She was very tall, but he liked her better for that. He meant to be tall some day. Just now he did not reach— But he did not wish to think of that. It troubled him to remember that Sunday that he had measured himself secretly beside Her, as the people walked out of church. It made him blush to think how very little way he had “reached.” He had never told any one, but then he never told any one anything. Not having any mother, and your father being away all the time, and the housekeeper being old, and your uncle Larry always laughing, made it diff’rent ’bout telling things. Of course if you had ’em—mothers, and fathers that stayed at home, and uncles that didn’t laugh,—but you didn’t. So you ’cided it was better not to tell things.
 
One Sunday the Little Lover thought he detected Uncle Larry watching Her too. But he was never quite certain sure. Anyway, when She had turned Her beautiful head and smiled across the aisle, it had been at him. The Little Lover was “certain sure” of that! In his shy little way he had smiled back at Her and nodded. The warmth had kept on in his heart all day. That was the day before he found out the Important Thing.
 
Out in the front hall after supper he came upon a beautiful, tantalizing¹⁰ smell that he failed for some time to locate. He went about with his little nose up-tilted, in a persistent¹¹ search. It was such a beautiful smell!—not powerful and oversweet, but faint and wonderful. The little nose searched on patiently till it found it. There was a long box on the hall-table and the beautiful smell came out under the lid and met the little, up-tilted nose half-way.
 
“I’ve found it! It’s inside o’ that box!” the Little Lover cried in triumph. “Now I guess I better see what it looks like. Oh! why, it’s posies!” For there, in moist tissue wrappings, lay a cluster of marvellous pale roses, breathing out their subtle sweetness into the little face above them.
 
“Why, I didn’t know that was the way a beautiful smell looked! I—it’s very nice, isn’t it? If it’s Uncle Larry’s, I’m goin’ to ask him— Oh, Uncle Larry, can I have it? Can I? I want to put it in Her—” But he caught himself up before he got quite to “Treasury Box.” He could not tell Uncle Larry about that.
 
The tall figure coming down the hall quickened its steps to a leap towards the opened box on the table. Uncle Larry’s face was flushed, but he laughed—he always laughed.
 
“You little ‘thafe o’ the wurruld’!” he called out. “What are you doing with my roses?”
 
“I want ’em—please,” persisted the child, eagerly, thinking of the Treasury Box and Her.
 
“Oh, you do, do you? But they’re not for the likes o’ you.”
 
Sudden inspiration came to the Little Lover. If this was a Treasury Box,—if he were right on the edge of finding out how you gave one—
 
“Is—is it for a She?” he asked, breathless with interest.
 
“A—‘She’?” laughed Uncle Larry, but something as faint and tender as the beautiful smell was creeping into his face. “Yes, it is for a She, Reggie,—the most beautiful She in the world,” he added, gently. He was wrapping the beautiful smell again in the tissue wrappings.
 
Then it was a Treasury Box. Then you did the treasures up that way, in thin, rattly¹² paper like that. Then what did you do? But he would find out.
 
“Oh, I didn’t know,” he murmured. “I didn’t know that was the way! Do you send it by the ’spressman, then, Uncle Larry,—to—to Her, you know? With Her name on?”
 
Uncle Larry was getting into his overcoat. He laughed. The tender light that had been for an instant in his face he had put away again out of sight.
 
“No; I’m my own ‘’spressman.’ You’ve got some things to learn, Reg, before you grow up.”
 
“I’d ravver learn ’em now. Tell me ’em! Tell what you do then.”
 
The old mocking light was back in Uncle Larry’s eyes. This small chap with the earnest little face was good as a play.
 
“‘Then’? Then, sure, I go to the door and ring the bell. Then I kneel on one knee like this, and hold out the box—”
 
“The Treasury Box—yes, go on.”
 
“—Like this. And I say, ‘Fair One, accept this humble¹³ offering, I beseech¹⁴ thee’—”
 
“Accept this hum-bul offering, I—I beseech thee”—the Little Lover was saying it over and over to himself. It was a little hard, on account o’ the queer words in it. He was still saying it after Uncle Larry had gone. His small round face was intent and serious. When he had learned the words, he practised getting down on one knee and holding out an imaginary Treasury Box. That was easier than the queer words, but it made you feel funnier somewhere in your inside. You wanted to cry, and you were a little afraid somebody else would want to laugh.
 
The next afternoon the Little Lover carried his Treasury Box to Her. He had wrapped all the little treasures carefully in tissue like Uncle Larry’s roses. But there was no beautiful smell creeping out;—there was something a little like a smell, but not a beautiful one. The Little Lover felt sorry for that.
 
She came to the door. It was a little discomposing on account of there being so little time to get your breath in. I-it made you feel funny.
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