"Oh, I saw that," she said.
"What was it?" I asked eagerly.
"Nicolay and Hay's 'Life of Abraham Lincoln.'"
It struck me all in a heap, and I laughed aloud—and yet I heard of Nort's reading not without a thrill.
"What is the matter?" asked Anthy. "What does it all mean?"
I had very much the feeling at that moment that I had when I took Anthy's letters from my desk to show to Nort, as though I was about to share a great and precious treasure with Anthy.
So I told her, very quietly, about Nort's visit to me and some of the things he said. She sat very still, her hands lying in her lap, her eyes on some shadowy spot far across the garden. I paused, wondering how much I dared tell.
"I don't know, Anthy, that I was doing right," I said, "but I wanted him to know something of you as you really are. So I told him about your letters to Lincoln, and showed him one of them."
She flushed deeply.
"You couldn't, David!"