inclination of the head and went up stairs feeling as
if she was in fairyland. Mrs. Crawford lay on the lounge with a
beautiful Persian wrap thrown over her.

"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