I nodded.
"I have always been a good mother to you, haven't I, Rhoda?"
I rubbed my head against her arm, and kissed her hand.
"At least I've tried to be!" my mother cried. "And now I am going to do something that perhaps you won't like; but you may understand some day, dear. I am going to put this book back into the bookcase, and I am going to lock the door. It is not to be opened until I give you leave."
"It isn't my fault, is it, mother?" I asked, perplexed.
"No, it is not your fault. It's only that I want to keep my little girl just the same in heart and mind as she has always been."
She put the book back on the shelf, and she locked the door; but she did not take away the brass key. She knew and I knew that I would never touch it.
But, oh, how I longed for my dear books! I used to creep to the door and look in at them, and it seemed to me that they appeared lonesome. I finished out the story of Cosette to suit myself, and I made stories likewise for the books which I did not know. There was one remarkable thing about my stories, and that was that nobody ever died; but they all lived happy forever and ever. Even when my mother read the Bible to me on Sunday nights after I was in bed I used to sit up anxiously, and pray her to end the stories in my way.
"Oh, don't let the lions eat poor Daniel!" I would cry. "Oh, mother, mother, don't let them eat him up!"
"Why it happened centuries ago, dear," my mother answered, half laughing.