“Yes’m. So my father said,” answered Steenie, sweetly. “But, you see, I didn’t know they weren’t to be looked at till Mr. Resolved said so. We didn’t have any books at San’ Felisa, ’cept Papa’s figurey ones, and some ’at didn’t have pictures. Only mine. The ‘boys’ used to bring me lovely books, ever’ time they went to town. They was ‘Jack the Giant Killer,’ and the Andersen man’s, an’ a beau-u-tiful ‘Mother Goose’! Father Antonio sent me a prayer-book; but it was all in Latin, and my father says I must learn English first.” The presence of her grandmother had reassured the child against any danger from the lumbago-frenzied Mr. Tubbs, and she now leaned contentedly against the wall, coolly watching the disarranged volumes being returned to their shelves, and quite free from any anger against anybody. But she could not forget what she had seen, and when Madam Calthorp had finished her labor, had closed and locked the glass doors of the old-fashioned book-cases, and turned to leave the room, she went forward and clasped the lady’s hand. “Did you ever read that book, Grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Is it English?”
“No, Italian. Dante, who wrote it, was an Italian poet.”
“Is it near here,—where those poor people are?”
“Steenie! Ah, how can I tell!”
“Can’t you? I thought you knew everything. My father says you are the most intelligy woman of his ’quaintance. He said he wished I could be like you; but he didn’t think I could, ’cause something was the matter with my nature, ’at made it diff’rent.”
“Say ‘dif-fer-ent,’ Steenie. Speak all your words distinctly.”
“Dif-fer-ent. It takes longer, doesn’t it?”
“It commonly takes longer to do things well than ill. It is the fault of the present generation to slur everything, in its rush for ‘time.’”