She is a spring among the rocks, and she comes up dimpling from the roots of the world.

She is just as simple and just as strange.

O! little shining spring of woman that is called Jenny, a great man must draw up through you the unfathomed, deep strengths of the old world.

He bends above you and drinks, and as he drinks, his face is mirrored in yours.
"Jenny, I don't think I'd read 'Miss -- --,' if I were you," would say the great man.
"No, dear ?" So Jenny was presently reading Ruskin instead, and wondering how she could ever have read "Miss -- --." And deep in her dear heart she was saying, "Of course not; great men's wives never read 'Miss -- --.'" And yet had the great man said, "Read Gaboriau instead,"-- as a certain very great man does,--Jenny's heart would have said, "Of course, great men's wives always read Gaboriau." No! great men's wives read "Sesame and Lilies," and "Sartor Resartus," and "Marius the Epicurean," and "Richard Feverel," and "Virginibus Puerisque,"-- they even try to read Newman's "Apologia." Such were the books on the sunnier side of Theophilus Londonderry's little library in No.

3 Zion Place.