e, felt no qualms. She went directly to the library: there
was little else of interest in the place to her. For years this spot had
been her secret treasure nook. When, as a little child, she had entered
the place with Eliza Jane, it was not as other children, but with an
inborn yearning to see and touch those wonderful rows of books. She was
permitted to dust those she could reach, and her touch was reverent and
gentle. The pictures had at first fascinated her; later, the district
school teaching had given her power to understand the words; then had
dawned the new heaven and the new earth. Like a miser with his gold, she
guarded her joy. She discovered the unfastened window and timed her
visits when she was sure of privacy; and so she had trod, undirected and
like the wild creature she was, the paths of literature.

The Devant library, gathered through generations, was stored in the
country house that had originally been built as a family home. But the
sons of the race were rovers and often years would slip by without a
personal inspection. James B. and Eliza Jane were the guardians, and
there was little need of a master's anxiety while those two were in
command.

Janet glanced about the library and her face grew radiant. She inhaled
long breaths. The odor of the leather and old paper thrilled her. She
mounted the little steps and took a book, with unerring touch, from the
fifth shelf, then she sprang lightly to the floor and went with her
prize to the shelter of a deep bay-window. Softly she raised the sash
and drew in the sweetness of the June day.

"It's good!" she murmured; "heavenly good!" Then she nestled among the
cushions on the window seat, and, shielded by the heavy curtains from
the emptiness of the room, she entered her paradise.

The key that opened the gateway was a rare edition of Shakespeare; the
play, "Romeo and Juliet." A tiny scrap of paper marked the place of the
last reading. The girl's eyes, blue now as the summer sky, fell upon the
words of delight, and instantly Quinton was forgotten, Quinton, and all
its familiar worries and small pleasures. Janet of the Dunes was Juliet
of Italy.

A crunching of gravel upon the driveway startled the girl cruelly. "I
believe I have a key, Saxton," said a deep, firm voice; "yes: here it
is, I can let myself in. Drive back to the station and wait for the
baggage train. See that everything is carefully loaded on the wagon from
the livery. You can get me a bit