ned a small
package, to find John Dryden's book. She was in the Library when Miss
Fanny came in with the mail, and her hand trembled as she cut the
strings. The flimsy tissue paper jacket blew softly over her hand; a
dark blue book, slim, dignified: "Mary Beatrice."

He had not autographed it, but then John would never think of doing so.
Martie smiled her motherly smile at the memory of his childish
dependence upon her suggestions as to the smaller points of living. Her
letter of congratulation began to run through her mind as she turned
the title page.

Suddenly her heart stopped beating. She wet her lips and glanced about.
Miss Fanny had gone into the coat-room; nobody was near.

Oh, madman, madman! He had dedicated it to her! A detected felony could
not have given Martie a more sinking sensation than she experienced at
the sight.

Her initials: M. S. B.--she need puzzle only a second over the
selection, for her letters to him were always signed, "Martha
Salisbury, Bannister." And under the initials, this:

Even as to Caesar, Cassar's toll, To God what in us is divine; So to
your soul above my soul Whatever life finds good in mine. Martie read
the four lines as many times, then she lifted the page to her cheek,
and held it there, shutting her eyes, and drawing a deep, ecstatic
breath.

"Oh, John, JOHN, how wonderful of you!" she whispered, her heart rising
on a swift, triumphant flight. Ah, this was something to have brought
from the long years; this counted in that inner tribunal of hers.

After awhile she began to turn the pages, wishing that she were a
better judge of all these phrases. The play was short: three brief acts.

"I think it's wonderful!" Martie decided. "I KNOW it is!"

For the little volume, even at this first quick glimpse, was stamped
with something fiery and strange. Martie's eyes drifted here and there;
presently fell upon the lines that brought the frightened little
Italian princess, fresh from her convent, to the strange coast of
England, and to the welcome of the strange King, her prospective
husband's brother. The words were simplicity's self, like all inspired
words, yet they brought the colour to Martie's face, and a yearning
pain to her heart. Youth and love in all their first gold glory were
captured here, and something of youth and glory seemed to flood the
Library throughout the quiet winter afternoon.

The hours droned on, Martie, moving noiselessly about, and touching the