The physician looked across to the bookstall where the child still stood, watchful of him and Peter beneath the shadowing brim of her hat. Obeying a good-natured impulse, he crossed to her and laid a hand on her shoulder, and called her "Cicely," and said he had been hearing she was fond of reading. "We both are," Cicely said, with a calm, middle-aged self-possession. "It is the thing Peter and I like best in the world." "And what sort of reading?" the doctor asked; and learnt that Peter liked books of adventure and happy stories, but that Cicely loved poetry, and liked best stories that were sad. "They make her cry, sir," Peter explained. "She cries, and cries--don't you, Cicely?--but she likes them too." So a kind doctor, looking over the wares displayed, bought a volume of Longfellow's poems, which he gave the girl--he knew nothing of poetry, but was sure Longfellow must be safe, as his mother had liked him--and he got for the boy, Wells's _Sea Lady_. "I don't read such things, myself," he said, "but I've gathered from the newspapers the man has a quite creditable acquaintance with science, and does not write sentimental rubbish." Cicely, regarding the donor with an unsmiling face, said--"Thank you very much," in her staid, middle-aged way; but Peter, using his tongue volubly, overwhelmed him with thanks. "It is kind of you!" he said fervently. "I shall always treasure the book, and so will Cicely hers. We go to the Library--we've got a splendid one, you know, in Edmonton, Passmore Edwards gave us. Before I got to Clomayne's--they didn't want me at home, and I had nowhere else to go--I spent most of my days in the Library. Of course I've read H. G. Wells, and I learnt a lot of him by heart to tell Cicely, but I love to have him for my own. I have very much to be grateful to you for, sir, and I shall be grateful while I live." "For how long will that be, poor fellow, I wonder!" the doctor said to himself as he walked away. He had done the poor boy a kindness, and he let his mind dwell on him with a pitying pleasure. It was hard that Fate should grudge to this unfortunate that humble place in the world of men which he held with such a boyish pride, those poor pleasures in which he took such innocent delight! He thought of his own son, as the train bore him away to his consultation, good and fairly satisfactory, but guarded on every side, petted, pampered. How much would it cost to bring into his own boy's handsome face the glow of surprised delight which had overspread the pale features of this poor lad at the gift of the four-and-sixpenny book.