"Will you come and read to me?" she asked in a winsome tone. "I want to hear your voice in poetry; Mrs. Barrington said you were a fine reader. I hope you love verse. The dainty little ones are a great pleasure to me, fugitive verses, as they are called. They have soothed many a painful hour." "Are you very tired?" Marguerite bent over and kissed her. "No, my dear, only this is part of my German doctor's regimen. He sent a nurse home with me, and last week she went back to assist him with a peculiar case; and I have certain directions to follow, which I obey, implicitly. One is to take a rest after luncheon. Then, I like to be read to. I am something of a spoiled child, you see." "I shall be glad to go on with the spoiling," the girl said in a sweet, earnest tone. "I want to do all I can to make you happy--to make up for the years when you did not have me." Marguerite's eyes were lustrous with deep feeling. Her words went to the mother's heart. "Let me see--find 'In Memoriam.' How many times in the last few days I have said over to myself: "If one should bring me this report That thou hads't touched the land today, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port," Marguerite took the beautifully bound volume in her hand and it gave her a thrill. "Some poems are adapted to this or that one's voice, like songs. The Major reads Browning and that is saved especially for him. Willard loves Stevenson and Eugene Field's children's verses. Zaidee the light gay caroling things, and those arch, sweet Irish poems. But your voice sounded to me as if you loved Tennyson and Whittier." "I have not had the opportunity of reading Tennyson very much, but I thought the Christmas verses most beautiful. I hope I shall please you," hesitatingly. Mrs. Crawford listened attentively. There was a depth and richness in the voice, an impressive, penetrating emotion that betrayed the harmony with the lines. And when she had finished that poem, she said in a low tone: "Shall I go on?" "Yes," replied the mother. It was so beautiful that Marguerite forgot herself in the poet's deep feeling--so human, so comforting--she could have read on until dusk, but Mrs. Crawford turned presently. "I must not tire you for I shall want you to read to me often. Do you sing? I suppose you have not begun to play?" "No, Mrs. Barrington thought I would, in the new term. And she also thought my voice was--" Marguerite paused, afraid of being too presuming. "Worth cultivating, was not that what she said? It is a contralto that can express profound depths of feeling. I had it years ago and your father was wild over it. He will be delighted. Zay's voice is a light soprano. She plays very well. Yes, you must take up music." "Oh, mother, it doesn't seem as if so many lovely things should come to me!" "Why not, when you have been in the desert all these years?"