She had never bought a book in her life. It had been difficult enough—impossible, at times—to buy the barest necessities; and what they did get was usually procured on credit in mysterious ways by Mr. Miller.
Money of her own was a thing unknown to Benedicta. Nevertheless, she went in the calmest way and asked her father for a little. Mr. Miller was equally calm when he gave her all he had. Indeed, he forgot the present moment, and felt himself one of the old Millers making a lavish gift to a daughter whose hand was sought by a scion of the Dumalls.
It didn’t matter that she went rattling off in her little car along muddy roads. She couldn’t have been lovelier in a coach with footmen. The rain blew against her face and made it beautifully rosy. Her dark hair became a little loosened under her wide hat.
When she sprang out, and went into the butcher’s, he was astounded by this new aspect of the high and mighty Miss Miller. To tell the truth, he felt more respect and admiration for her happy youth than he had ever felt for her Millerness.
“Mr. Schultz,” she said eagerly, “can you tell me where there’s a book shop?”
Mr. Schultz had an educated son who bought books. He told her that for the first time in many years there was now a book shop in Elderfield, and a good one, too, just behind the post office.
“It’s—” he began, but she thanked him, and hurried off.
It was a trim, attractive little shop, with a striped awning, and in the window were displayed books as fresh and tempting as the first delectable fruits in spring. No bookworm was Benedicta, however. She pulled up the little car smartly, jumped out, and entered the shop with a brisk and resolute air.
“Have you a copy of—” she began, addressing the young man who came forward.
Then she stopped short with a gasp. It was Francis Dumall!