Clare sat down again and began to laugh pleasantly. "What am I to do with you, Louise? Are you five or fifty? You want to discuss Meredith with me--(not that I shall let you, my child--don't think I approve of all this reading--I did it myself at your age, you see) and five minutes later you look at me round-eyed because I've forgotten my Joshua or my Judges! Kings? I beg your pardon; Kings be it! Never mind, Louise. Tell me about the Witch of Endor." "Only that she called up Samuel, I meant, from the dead." Louise was evidently abstracted; she was picking her words. "Don't you believe it, Miss Hartill, quite?" "It's the Old Testament, after all," temporised Clare. She began to see Louise's difficulty. She had no beliefs herself but she thought she would find out how fourteen handled the problem. "Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?" Clare fenced. "Many people think so." "I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous. Clare shook her head. "I won't help you, Louise. You must find out for yourself. Leave it alone, if you're wise." "How can I? I've been reading----" "Ah?" "The _Origin of Species_--and _We Two_." Clare's gravity fled. She lay back shaking with laughter. "Louise, you're delightful! Anything else?" Louise pulled up her footstool to Clare's knee. "Miss Hartill, I've been reading a play. It's horrible. I can't bear it, though it was thrilling to read----" Clare interrupted. "Where do you get all these books, Louise?" "They are all Mother's, you know. Nobody else wants them. And then there's the Free Library." Clare shuddered. She would sooner have drunk from the tin cup of a public fountain than have handled the greasy volumes of a public library. "How can you?" she said disgustedly. "Dirt and dog-ears!" Louise opened her eyes. She was too young to be squeamish. "'A book's a book for a' that,'" she laughed. "How else am I to get hold of any--that I like?" Clare jerked her head to the lined walls. "Help yourself," she said. Louise was radiant. "May I? Oh, you are good! I will take such care. I'll cover them in brown paper." She jumped up and, running across the room, flung herself on her knees before the wide shelves. Timidly, at first, but with growing forgetfulness of Clare, she pulled out here a volume and there a volume, handling them tenderly, yet barely opening each, so eager was she for fresh discoveries. She reminded Clare of _Alice_ with the scented rushes. Clare was amused by her absorption, and a little touched. The child's attitude to books hinted at the solitariness of her life: she relaxed to them, greeting them as intimates and companions; there was a new appearance on her; she was obviously at home, welcomed by her friends; a very different person to the shy-eyed, prim little prodigy her school-fellows knew.