Daintily she peeped
within the boards, and the gilding of the leaves responded in
light to her smile.
"Poetry!" she cried, in a tone of delight. "Is it really for me,
Cousin Godfrey? Do you think I shall be able to understand it?"
"You can soon settle that question for yourself," answered
Godfrey, with a pleased smile--for he augured well from this
reception of his gift--and turned to leave the dairy.
"But, Cousin Godfrey--please!" she called after him, "you don't
give me time to thank you."
"That will do when you are certain you care for it," he returned.
"I care for it very _much_!" she replied.
"How can you say that, when you don't know yet whether you will
understand it or not?" he rejoined, and closed the door.
Letty stood motionless, the book in her hand illuminating the
dusk with gold, and warming its coolness with its crimson boards
and silken linings. One poem after another she read, nor knew how
the time passed, until the voice of her aunt in her ears warned
her to finish her skimming, and carry the jug to the pantry. But
already Letty had taken a little cream off the book also, and
already, between the time she entered and the time she left the
dairy, had taken besides a fresh start in spiritual growth.
The next day Godfrey took an opportunity of asking her whether
she had found in the book anything she liked. To his
disappointment she mentioned one of the few commonplace things
the collection contained--a last-century production, dull and
respectable, which, surely, but for the glamour of some pleasant
association, the editor would never have included.
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