For the moment, under the influence of the little house of dreams, she was a girl again--a girl forgetful of the past and its bitterness.

The atmosphere of the many loves that had sanctified the little house was all about her; the companionship of two healthy, happy, young folks of her own generation encircled her; she felt and yielded to the magic of her surroundings--Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim would scarcely have recognized her; Anne found it hard to believe that this was the cold, unresponsive woman she had met on the shore--this animated girl who talked and listened with the eagerness of a starved soul.

And how hungrily Leslie's eyes looked at the bookcases between the windows! "Our library isn't very extensive," said Anne, "but every book in it is a FRIEND.

We've picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to the race of Joseph." Leslie laughed--beautiful laughter that seemed akin to all the mirth that had echoed through the little house in the vanished years.
"I have a few books of father's--not many," she said.

"I've read them until I know them almost by heart.