A rare edition of Spenser, exquisitely bound, was handled reverently by Mrs. Dorriman. It had been a favourite book of her father's, and Mr. Dorriman had had it rebound for her. "What is that?" asked Margaret, very innocently; "oh, I see, the man who wrote in what is called black-letter writing." "My dear," said the amazed Mrs. Dorriman, "surely you cannot have been taught that." "Well, there is something funny about his writing, so that trying to read it was no use." "I hope to convince you of the contrary," said Mrs. Dorriman with suppressed merriment; not for worlds would she have hurt the girl's feelings by laughing at her, and Margaret went away. Then she seemed to see herself with certainly more education, but very ignorant still at the age of seventeen, thrown so much upon herself and her own resources for all amusements and happiness--turning to these books, and losing herself in silent delight as one treasure after another opened to her enraptured eyes. Her husband, himself fond of reading and anxious to win her love in any way, had spent a great deal in filling her library with books. She had editions which were priceless of various old authors, and the most perfect possible collection of poetical works, including many of those tender French poets from whom in these days it is so easy to borrow without detection, so completely are they out of date and forgotten; and, who living lives apart from their fellows, seem to have kept their old words and chivalrous sentiments pure and free from the worldliness and the grossness of their time. But she was recalled to the present by Grace's voice, and then she looked round to see where she could put her books. There was but one little bookshelf in her room. She filled that and then went into the drawing-room to see what could be done there. She found Margaret in tears, and Grace looking flushed and defiant. But she had resolved to take no notice of anything not immediately directed to herself, and Grace left the room. Relieved by not being asked for any explanation, Margaret threw herself now again into the matter. The bookshelves, standing almost empty, were soon comfortably filled, and then Mrs. Dorriman, who had a happy gift of arrangement, moved the tables and chairs about, made a comfortable corner for her brother, and gave a look of home to the room which it had sorely needed, by which time the morning had passed away. In the afternoon Mrs. Dorriman wished to go and see how Jean fared; but she did not want to be out of the way if the girls wanted to go out with her. Before she rose to find them, however, she heard the hall-door shut, and she saw them walking down the avenue. "They might have said something to me," she thought, but she understood immediately that this was another protest made by Grace against any "interference."