"She never really cared for me," he said, as he tenderly drew them out
from their place one by one. "I want a love-cure," he added, "I must have
one, for I must be done with this, and forever."

Now, gentle reader, do not censure him, this George Addison, lover, for he
straightway sent them back to her? No, not that--but this: He
deliberately--although it gave him a pang--arranged to dispose of them all
as Christmas gifts to his friends and relatives. It was after this
fashion: The hat-mark, G.A., done in violent yellow, on a glaring bit of
blue satin, was hard to dispose of; but he finally thought of a little
nephew--the incarnation of a small devil--so he wrote a note to the
mother, inclosing the hat-mark, with this explanation: "G.A., you must
readily see, stands for 'Good Always.' What could be more appropriate for
your darling child?"

The shaving papers, like Joseph's coat of many colors, he sent to Uncle
Hezekiah, an old family servant, who delighted in them, even until the
hour of his happy death, unused, for who ever heard of using beautiful
shaving papers!

The embroidered slippers, which had made up a trifle small, were mailed
with much glee to a distant relative in Texas on a cattle ranch, where
slippers were unnecessary--but Addison did not consider himself
responsible for that--for he had discovered from personal experience that
the less sensible the gift the more often it is given.

The onyx cuff buttons were well worn, and had rendered excellent service,
although they were not good to look upon. Yet, Jennings, the chiropodist,
had taken a fancy to them long ago, so he concluded to let him have them