of his most exciting campaigns; the sight of it touched
him to the heart, and then she opened it, and showed him the three or
four letters that he had written her,--one, in boyish handwriting,
describing his adventures on his first Western journey.

"There are a hundred and six volumes now," announced the proud owner
of such a library. "I lend 'em all I can, or most of them would look
better. I have had to wait a good while for some, and some weren't
what I expected 'em to be, but most of 'em's as good books as there is
in the world. I've never been so situated that it seemed best for me
to indulge in a daily paper, and I don't know but it's just as well;
but stories were never any great of a temptation. I know pretty well
what's goin' on about me, and I can make that do. Real life's
interestin' enough for me."

Mr. Laneway was still looking over the books. His heart smote him for
not being thoughtful; he knew well enough that the overflow of his own
library would have been delightful to this self-denying, eager-minded
soul. "I've been a very busy man all my life, Abby," he said
impulsively, as if she waited for some apology for his forgetfulness,
"but I'll see to it now that you have what you want to read. I don't
mean to lose hold of your advice on state matters." They both laughed,
and he added, "I've always thought of you, if I haven't shown it."

"There's more time to read than there used to be; I've had what was
best for me," answered the woman gently, with a grateful look on her
face, as she turned to glance at her old friend. "Marilla takes hold
wonderfully and helps me with the work. In the long winter evenings
you can't think what a treat a new book is. I wouldn't change places
with the queen."

They had come back to the kitchen, and she stood before the cupboard,
reaching high for two old gayly striped crockery mugs. There were some
doughnuts and cheese at hand; their early supper seemed quite
forgotten. The kitchen was warm, and they had talked themselves
thirsty and hungry; but with what an unexpected tang the cider
freshened their throats! Mrs. Hender had picked the apples herself
that went to the press; they were all chosen from the old russet tree
and the gnarly, red-cheeked, ungrafted fruit that grew along the lane.
The flavor made one think of frosty autumn mornings on high hillsides,
of north winds and sunny skies. "It 'livens one to the heart," as Mrs.
Hender remarked proudly, when the Senator t