fountain,--the books of adventure, the romances, the
stories which fortune had placed in her hands,--the same over which the
heart of the Pride of the County had throbbed in the last century, and
on the pages of some of which the traces of her tears might still be
seen.

The literature which was furnished for Myrtle's improvement was chiefly
of a religious character, and, however interesting and valuable to those
to whom it was adapted, had not been chosen with any wise regard to its
fitness for her special conditions. Of what use was it to offer books
like the "Saint's Rest" to a child whose idea of happiness was in
perpetual activity? She read "Pilgrim's Progress," it is true, with
great delight. She liked the idea of travelling with a pack on one's
back, the odd shows at the House of the interpreter, the fighting, the
adventures, the pleasing young ladies at the palace the name of which
was Beautiful, and their very interesting museum of curiosities. As for
the allegorical meaning, it went through her consciousness like a peck
of wheat through a bushel measure with the bottom out, without touching.

But the very first book she got hold of out of the hidden treasury threw
the "Pilgrim's Progress" quite into the shade. It was the story of
a youth who ran away and lived on an island,--one Crusoe,--a homely
narrative, but evidently true, though full of remarkable adventures.
There too was the history, coming much nearer home, of Deborah Sampson,
the young woman who served as a soldier in the Revolutionary War, with a
portrait of her in man's attire, looking intrepid rather than lovely. A
virtuous young female she was, and married well, as she deserved to, and
raised a family with as good a name as wife and mother as the best of
them. But perhaps not one of these books and stories took such hold of
her imagination as the tale of Rasselas, which most young persons
find less entertaining than the "Vicar of Wakefield," with which it is
nowadays so commonly bound up. It was the prince's discontent in the
Happy Valley, the iron gate opening to the sound of music, and closing
forever on those it admitted, the rocky boundaries of the imprisoning
valley, the visions of the world beyond, the projects of escape, and
the long toil which ended in their accomplishment, which haunted her
sleeping and waking. She too was a prisoner, but it was not in the Happy
Valley. Of the romances and the love-letters we must take it for granted
tha