"But it wasn't her book at all; I got it out of your room underneath the big Brande and Taylor's Chemistry. It had your name in it."
"Yes"—reflectively—"I bought it on April 9, 1870."
"Well, it's burnt now."
He was still smiling and stroking his ragged beard.
"I hope she isn't going to keep the big bookcases locked up forever," sighed Val.
"She will never like to see Valeria's books knocking about."
"Gracious, no! She refused to lend Mrs. Otway Helen Whitman's Poems, because she said it had Poe's notes in it; but I knew it wasn't a bit on account of Poe. It had some of Aunt Valeria's notes in it, and that was why she wouldn't let it go out o' the house. I was awfully ashamed, and Mrs. Otway looked so snubbed."
And still he only smiled.
"She isn't a bit like other people, but sometimes I'm not sorry."
"Never be sorry, my child. Never be so dull as not to realize that the woman who stands at the head of our line gives us our best title to honor—and to hope."