“But, Sister Cooper--” commenced the preacher. “Yes, Brother Cross,” replied the dame. “Books, as I said before, are of two kinds.” “Yes, I know--good and bad--I only wonder there's no indifferent ones among 'em,” replied the lady. “They should be examined for the benefit of the young and ignorant.” “Oh, yes, and for more besides, for Mrs. Thackeray's not young, that's clear enough; and I know there's a good many things that she's not ignorant of. She's precious knowing about many things that don't do her much good; and if the books could unlearn her, I'd say for one let her keep 'em. But as for looking at Margaret's books--why, Brother Cross, you surely know Margaret?” The preacher answered meekly, but negatively. “Ain't she about the smartest girl you ever met with?” continued the mother. “God has certainly blessed her with many gifts,” was the reply, “but where the trust is great, the responsibility is great also.” “Don't she know it?” “I trust she does, Sister Cooper.” “You may trust every bit of it. She's got the smartness, the same as it is in books--” “But the gift of talents, Sister Cooper, is a dangerous gift.” “I don't see, Brother Cross, how good things that come from God can be dangerous things.” “If I could see the books, Sister Cooper;--I say not that they are evil--” John Cross began in tones that denoted something like despair; certainly dissatisfaction was in them, when Alfred Stevens, who had long since tired of what was going on, heard a light footfall behind him. He turned his eyes and beheld the fair maiden, herself, the propriety of whose reading was under discussion, standing in the doorway. It appeared that she had gathered from what had reached her ears, some knowledge of what was going on, for a smile of ineffable scorn curled her classic and nobly-chiselled mouth, while her brow was the index to a very haughty volume. In turning, Alfred Stevens betrayed to her the playful smile upon his own lips--their eyes met, and that single glance established a certain understanding between them. Her coming did not avail to stifle the subject of discussion. John Cross was too resolute in the prosecution of his supposed duty, to give up the cause he had once undertaken. He had all the inveteracy of the stout old puritan. The usual introduction over and he resumed, though he now addressed himself to the daughter rather than the mother. She scarcely heard him to the end. “The books were my father's, Mr. Cross; they are valuable to me on that account. They are dear to me on their own. They are almost my only companions, and though I believe you would find nothing in them which might be held detrimental, yet I must confess, if there were, I should be sorry to be made acquainted with the fact. I have not yet discovered it myself, and should be loath to have it shown by another.” “But you will let me see them, Margaret?”