Neither did he feel much now, save as owing
her something beyond mere acknowledgment. But was there anything
now he could do for her--anything in her he could help? He did
not know. What she really was, he could not tell. She was a
fresh, bright girl--that he seemed to have just discovered; and,
as she sat polishing the stirrup, her hair shaken about her
shoulders, she looked engaging; but whether she was one he could
do anything for that was worth doing, was hardly the less a
question for those discoveries.
"There must be _something_ in the girl!" he said to himself
--then suddenly reflected that he had never seen a book in her
hand, except her prayer-book; how _was_ he to do anything
for a girl like that? For Godfrey knew no way of doing people
good without the intervention of books. How could he get near one
that had no taste for the quintessence of humanity? How was he to
offer her the only help he had, when she desired no such help?
"But," he continued, reflecting further, "she may have thirsted,
may even now be athirst, without knowing that books are the
bottles of the water of life!" Perhaps, if he could make her
drink once, she would drink again. The difficulty was, to find
out what sort of spiritual drink would be most to her taste, and
would most entice her to more. There must be some seeds lying
cold and hard in her uncultured garden; what water would soonest
make them grow? Not all the waters of Damascus will turn mere
sand sifted of eternal winds into fruitful soil; but Letty's soul
could not be such.
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