in everything, and her singularly
quick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graver
impressions.

Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her small
domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her; but her
mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had spoken of the
vexations which might be shared. There was something inspiriting in
that thought, certainly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees the
trouble and indignation died away, and a very sweet look stole over the
grave little face.

A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-colored wall,
and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recognizing
the scatter of its daily bread.

"After all," though Erica, "with ourselves and the animals, we might let
the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turn
the animals and birds against us! That would be worse than anything."

Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took out
of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.

"Still sixpence of my prize money over," she remarked to herself; "I'll
go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them."

Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to be
had at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy scones
which she considered worthy the name, and that was at the Scotch baker's
in Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet pavements, glad that the
rain was over, for as soon as her purchase was completed she made up
her mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had lately become a
very frequent treat, namely a pause before a certain tempting store of
second-hand books. She had never had money enough to buy anything except
the necessary school books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she
always seized with avidity on anything that was to be found outside the
book shop. Sometimes she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which
would ring in her ears for days and days; sometimes she would read as
much as two or three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her,
and a certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating
than otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs
of Solomon, "Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is
pleasant."

For three successive days she had found to her great delight
Longfellow's "Hiawatha." The strange meter, the mu