's heart,' and poor
John Splendid went out covered with shame."

Jean's eyes were shining, and she had forgotten to be awkward and
tongue-tied.

"I remember," said Lord Bidborough. "And the wonderful descriptions--'I
know corries in Argyle that whisper silken' ... do you remember that?
And the last scene of all when John Splendid rides away?"

"Do you cry over books, Jean?" Pamela asked. She was sitting on the end
of the sofa, her embroidery frame in her hand and her cloak on, ready to
go when her brother had finished looking at Jean's treasures.

Jean shook her head. "Not often. Great-aunt Alison said it was the sign
of a feeble mind to waste tears over fiction, but I have cried. Do you
remember the end of _The Mill on the Floss_? Tom and Maggie have been
estranged, and the flood comes, and Tom goes to save Maggie. He is
rowing when he sees the great mill machinery sweeping down on them, and
he takes Maggie's hand, and calls her the name he had used when they
were happy children together--'_Magsie_!'"

Pamela nodded. "Nothing appeals to you so much as family affection,
Jean, girl. What have you got now, Biddy? _Nelly's Teachers_?"

"Oh, that," said Jean, getting pink--"that's a book I had when I was a
child, and I still like it so much that I read it through every year."

"Oh, Jean, you babe!" Pamela cried. "Can you actually still read
goody-goody girls' stories?"

"Yes," said Jean defiantly, "and enjoy them too."

"And why not?" asked Lord Bidborough. "I enjoy _Huckleberry Finn_ as
much now as I did when I was twelve; and I often yearn after the books I
had as a boy and never see now. I used to lie on my face poring over
them. _The Clipper of the Clouds_, and _Sir Ludar_, and a fairy story
called _Rigmarole in Search of a Soul_, which, I remember, was quite
beautiful, but can't lay hands on anywhere."

Jean looked at him gratefully, and thought to herself that he wasn't
going to be a terrifying person after all. For his age--Jean knew that
he was thirty-five, and had expected something much more mature--he
seemed oddly boyish. He had an expectant young look in his eyes, as if
he were always waiting for some chance of adventure to turn up, and
there were humorous lines about his mouth which seemed to say that he
found the world a very funny place, and was exceedingly well amused.

He certainly seemed very much at home at The Rigs, fondling the rare old
books with the hands of a book lover, inspecting the co