“Let me look!” cried John, darting to her side. “Yes, it’s in that same handwriting, Mary. It’s a letter from Aunt Nan. Do hurry and open it!” Mary held the envelope somewhat dubiously. It was not quite pleasant to be receiving letters from a person no longer living in this world. She glanced up at the portrait over the mantel as she cut the end of the envelope with Aunt Nan’s desk shears, and it seemed to her that the eyes under the prim gray curls gleamed at her knowingly. She almost expected to see the long forefinger of the portrait’s right hand point directly at her. It was a brief letter that Aunt Nan had written; and it explained why she had left her library of precious books to this grandniece Mary whom she had never seen. Mary Corliss (it began): I shan’t call you dear Mary because I don’t know whether you are dear or not. You may be if you like the sort of things I always liked. And in that case I shall be glad you have them for your own, when I can no longer enjoy them. I mean the things in this room, which I have given all to you, because there is no one else whom I can bear to think of as handling them. I heard your father say once that he hated poetry. That was enough for me! I never wanted to see him again. He can have my house, but not my precious books. Well, I read in the paper which your mother sent me that you had won a prize at school for a composition about William Shakespeare, the greatest poet who ever lived. You have begun well! If you go on, as I did, you will care as I have cared about everything he wrote. So you shall have my library and get what you can out of it. Be kind to the books I have loved. Love them, if you can, for their own sake. Your Great-Aunt, NAN CORLISS. “What a queer letter!” said John. “So it was your composition that did it. My! Aren’t you lucky, Mary!” “I do like Shakespeare already,” said Mary, glancing first at Aunt Nan’s portrait, then at the bust of the poet below it. “And I guess I am going to like Aunt Nan.” She smiled up at the portrait, which she now thought seemed to smile back at her. “I must go and tell Father about it,” she said eagerly, running out of the room; and presently she came back, dragging him by the hand. “Well, Mary!” said Dr. Corliss. “So it was your Shakespeare essay that won you the library! I remember how fond Aunt Nan used to be of the Poet. She was always quoting from him. I am glad you like poetry, my dear; though for myself I never could understand it. This is, indeed, a real poetry library. I am glad she gave it to you instead of to me, Mary. There are any number of editions of Shakespeare here, I have noticed, and a lot of books about him, too. I suppose she would have liked you to read every one.”