"Monsieur Van Zandt, you bewilder my little savage. She can not read." But a light of comprehension flashed instantly into the puzzled eyes. She pulled Eliot's sleeve. "You mean books. Come, you will find plenty in the library." He followed her into the pretty room beyond the olive satin _portière_, where they found plenty of books indeed. She pointed to them, and looked at him helplessly. He found Webster on the top shelf of a rich inlaid book-case, and was half-stifled with dust as he drew it down from the spot where it had rested undisturbed for years. He sneezed vigorously, and his companion hastened to dust it off with her tiny handkerchief. "Now!" she said, anxiously, spreading the big book open on a table before him. CHAPTER III. The leaves fluttered with her hasty movement, and a folded sheet of parchment fell out upon the floor. As he turned the pages to the F's she picked up the paper and held it in her hands, looking curiously at the bold, clear superscription on the back, and the big red seal; but it told nothing to her uneducated eyes, and with an unconscious sigh, she pushed it back into the dictionary, her hand touching his in the movement and sending an odd thrill of pleasure along his nerves. He read aloud, in his clear, full tones: "'FRIEND.--One who, entertaining for another sentiments of esteem, respect, and affection, from personal predilection, seeks his society and welfare; a well-wisher, an intimate associate.'" She stood by him, her hands resting on the table, trembling with pleasure, her face glowing. "It is beautiful," she exclaimed. "I thought the word sounded very sweet. And--you--you want to be my friend?" The most finished coquette might have envied the artless naïveté of her look and tone, yet she was "Too innocent for coquetry, Too fond for idle scorning." Touched by this new side of her character, he put his hand impulsively on the little one resting close by his on the table with a gentle pressure. "Child, I will be your friend if you will let me," he said, in a gentle tone, and not dreaming of all to which that promise was swiftly leading. "I shall be so glad," she said, in a voice so humble, and with so tender a face, that the people in the other room would scarce have recognized her as the little savage and vixen they called her. But Pierre Carmontelle, always full of mischief and banter, had deliberately sauntered in, and heard the compact of friendship between the two who, until to-night, had been utter strangers. He gave his friend a quizzical smile. "Ever heard of Moore's 'Temple to Friendship,' Van Zandt?" he inquired, dryly. "Let me recall it to your mind." He brought a book from a stand near by, opened it, and read aloud, with dry significance, in his clear voice: