e maid," asked the minister, "how is the ankle?"

"It's well, and to-morrow I'm to walk on it for the first time. Doctor
Ralph has been so good to me--everybody's been good."

Thorpe picked up the book, which lay face downward, and held it close
to his near-sighted eyes. Araminta trembled; she was afraid he would
take it away from her.

All that day, she had lived in a new land, where men were brave and
women were fair. Castle towers loomed darkly purple in the sunset, or
shone whitely at noon. Kings and queens, knights and ladies, moved
sedately across the tapestry, mounted on white chargers with trappings
of scarlet and gold. Long lances shimmered in the sun and the armour
of the knights gave back the light an hundred fold. Strange music
sounded in Araminta's ears--love songs and serenades, hymns of battle
and bugle calls. She felt the rush of conflict, knew the anguish of
the wounded, and heard the exultant strains of victory.

And all of it--Araminta had greatly marvelled at this--was done for
love, the love of man and woman.

A knight in the book had asked the lady of his heart to marry him, and
she had not seen that she was insulted, nor guessed that he was
offering her disgrace. Araminta wondered that the beautiful lady could
be so stupid, but, of course, she had no Aunt Hitty to set her right.
Far from feeling shame, the lady's heart had sung for joy, but
secretly, since she was proud. Further on, the same beautiful lady had
humbled her pride for the sake of her love and had asked the gallant
knight to marry her, since she had once refused to marry him.

"Why, Araminta!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe, greatly surprised. "I thought
Miss Mehitable did not allow you to read novels."

"A novel! Why, no, Mr. Thorpe, it isn't a novel! It's just a story
book. Doctor Ralph told me so."

Austin Thorpe laughed indulgently. "A rose by any other name," he
said, "is--none the less a rose. Doctor Ralph was right--it is a story
book, and I am right, too, for it is also a novel."

Araminta turned very pale and her eyes filled with tears.

"Mr. Thorpe," she said, in an anguished whisper, "will I be burned?"

"Why, child, what do you mean?"

"I didn't know it was a novel," sobbed Araminta. "I thought it was a
story book. Aunt Hitty says people who read novels get burned--they
writhe in hell forever in the lake of fire."

The Reverend Austin Thorpe went to the door and looked out into the
hall. No one was i