That heart's action was
not even, was not healthy.
When in London he had ransacked Holywell Street for dainty
editions of so many of his favorite authors as would make quite a
little library for Letty; and on his return, had commissioned a
cabinet-maker in Testbridge to put together a small set of book-
shelves, after his own design, measured and fitted to receive
them exactly; these shelves, now ready, he fastened to her wall
one afternoon when she was out of the way, and filled them with
the books. He never doubted that, the moment she saw them, she
would rush to find him; and, when he had done, retreated,
therefore, to his study, there to sit in readiness to receive her
and her gratitude with gentle kindness; when he would express the
hope that she would make real friends of the spirits whose
quintessence he had thus stored to her hand; and would introduce
her to what Milton says in his "Areopagitica" concerning good
books. There, for her sake, then, he sat, in mental state,
expectant; but sat in vain. When they met at tea, then, in the
presence of his mother, with embarrassment and broken utterance,
she did thank him.
"O Cousin Godfrey!" she said, and ceased; then, "It is so much
more than I deserve, I dare hardly thank you." After another
pause, with a shake of her pretty head, as if she would toss
aside her hair, or the tears out of her eyes, "I don't know--I
seem to have no right to thank you; I ought not to have such a
splendid present.
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