She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. But she had spent nearly half of it, and had no conception of how such a sum could be made good again. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. "You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder.
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