The syringa was out now, and the mournful, sweet odour blew in from the bushes around the church. In the still June air he could hear the bees buzzing there. He turned the beloved pages idly. Should it be poor Psyche, so sweet and foolish, or Danaë, the lovely mother, hushing her baby in the sea-tossed chest? He found the place of Proverbial Expressions at the back of the book, and read them with a never-failing interest. Around them he wove long stories to please himself. "_Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as those of sisters ought to be._" This one always pleased him--he could not have said why. "_Here lies Phäton, the driver of his father's chariot, which if he failed to manage, yet he fell in a great undertaking._" The simple grandeur of this one was like the trumpet tone of the organ. He thrilled to it delightedly. The third he murmured to himself, entranced by the very sound of the words: "_He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for another; looks up to the skies, and dying remembers sweet Argos._" Ah, why would Thomas never consent to the witchery of these words: "----_and dying remembers sweet Argos._" He sighed delightedly and dreamed into the dusk. Almost he thought he had known that man, almost he remembered sweet Argos.... In the middle of June the Vanderhoof's coachman brought bad news: Master Clarence was quite ill. No one knew what it was exactly, but if there was any exceptionally fine book that Jimmy could suggest, he'd be glad to be read to from it. For the first time the little librarian parted from his darling. "If you'll be especially careful of it, William, and I've put in slips of paper at the best ones. And as soon as he gets better, I'd be glad if he'd send it back--if he's through with it." The days seemed long without it. The heat was intense, and when Miss Mather stayed at home a day or two, and all the summer people came in for books, he had a great deal to do. Miss Watkins was very glad of his help, now. One hot Saturday afternoon he did not return to the library, but began a resolute journey to the Vanderhoof's big house on the hill. It was almost two miles, and he went slowly; now and then he stopped to rest on the stone horse-blocks. It took him an hour to get there, and at the door he had to stop to wipe his forehead and get his breath. "I came to ask how Clarence was," he said to the maid. "He's better, thank you, but it's dreadful sick he's been. 'Twas scarlet fever, dear," she answered, with a pitying glance at the crutch. "Not that you need be worried, for the half of the house is shut off, and we've not been near it," she added. "I'm glad he's better, and--and is he through with the book?" he asked eagerly. "The book? What book is it, my dear? Sure the nurse does be reading a hundred books to him." "A brown book: Stories of Gods and Heroes. I--I'd like it, if he's through with it. I stay at the libr'y, and I sent it to him--" he sank on the step, exhausted.