with a book, but not strong enough to
work. Now I always had (so my mother said) a kind and obliging way with
me, and had, besides, a great pride in my library. I was delighted that
anybody wanted to read my books, and hurried home to make a selection.

That very afternoon, I took over an armful. Nobody was in the kitchen;
so I sat down to wait. The door of the little keeping-room was open, and
I knew by their voices that some great discussion was going on. I tipped
over a cricket to make them aware of my presence. The door was opened
wide, and Mrs. Wood appeared.

"Now here is Mr. Allen," she exclaimed. "Let us get his opinion."

Then she took me in, where they were holding solemn council over a straw
bonnet and various colored ribbons. She introduced me to Ellen, whom I
had never before met. She was a merry-looking, black-eyed maiden, and
the roses were already blooming out again upon her cheeks. She was very
young,--not more than fifteen or sixteen.

"Now, Mr. Allen," said Jane, (she was not so bashful to me as I was to
her,) "let us have your opinion upon these trimmings. Remember, though,
that pink and blue can't go together."

She turned her face full upon me, and I looked straight into her eyes.
I really believe it was the first time I had done so. They were
beautifully blue, with long dark lashes. She had been a little excited
by the discussion, and her cheeks were like two roses. A strange
boldness came over me.

"How can I remember that," I answered, "when I see in your face that
pink and blue _do_ go together?"

Never, till within a few years, could I account for this sudden
boldness. I have now no doubt that I spoke by what spiritualists call
"impression." We were all surprised, and I most of all. Jane laughed,
and looked pinker than before. She would as soon have expected a
compliment from the town pump, and I felt it.

I knew nothing of bonnets, but I had studied painting, and was a judge
of colors. I made a selection, and could see that they were again
surprised at my good taste. I then offered my books, spoke of the
different authors, turned to what I thought might particularly please
them, and, before I knew it, was all aglow with the unusual excitement
of conversation. I saw that they were not without cultivation, and that
they had a quick appreciation of literary merit.

And thus an acquaintance commenced. I called often, for it seemed a
pleasant thing to do. As my excuse, I took with me my