"It is so strange that I should have one of his books in my hand again. You can imagine what a grief it was to him when he had to let them go."
"I am so glad to have restored to you something that was your father's. I want you to give me a great pleasure, Miss Campion. These books—there are not more than forty outside—I want you to have them. They are yours, you know, because they were his, and he ought never to have been deprived of them."
"I could not take them, indeed, Mr. Walcott. You are most kind to think of it, but I could not!"
"Why?"
"That is hardly a reasonable question," she said, with a quiet little laugh. "How could I?"
"I see very well how you could, but why should you not? It will be a good deed, and there is no good deed without a sacrifice."
"And you want to sacrifice these books, which are so valuable!"
"No, it is no sacrifice to me, as I could easily prove to you. Believe that it pleases me, and sacrifice your own feelings by taking them."
"I don't see why you should ask me. It is too great a present to make, and—oh, dear me, I am afraid I do not know how to say what I mean! But if you will give me this one book, with my father's name in it, I will take it from you, and thank you very much for it."
"I shall not be satisfied if I may not send the rest. Miss Campion, I came to say——"