"This is a nice room," she said; "but come to the window, and you will see one of my reasons."
She threw up the sash, and pointed with her little hand to the village church, which rose in quiet beauty from among the leafless trees.
"Is it not pretty?" she asked, with a smile.
"Very pretty," I answered; and as I used her own simple words, I felt that there was that in them, said as she said them, that is often wanting in pages of impassioned eloquence, in volumes of elaborate composition,—reality. She was happy in this place, because of her little room, and because of the view of the village church, which she could see from its window. How pure must be the mind, how calm must be the life, when such a circumstance can give a colouring to it.
"Alice, have you no books? I see none here."
"I have a few; do you wish to see them?"
"Yes, I do; I should like to know what books you like."
"Then I must show you another of my reasons," she said, with one of her sweet, calm smiles, and opened the door of another very small room, which had no other entrance than through her own.
There was a little table in it, and a wooden stool; both were placed near the window. Upon the table lay two books—one was a Bible, the other a large prayer-book, bound in red morocco, and illustrated with prints. A shelf hung in one comer; "Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and Dying," the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Bishop Heber's Hymns," and a few more books besides, were ranged upon it. Among them, a small one, which I was well acquainted with, called "Birds and Flowers," attracted my attention. I asked Alice if she had read it through.
"Yes, I have," she replied. "Mr. Henry gave it me a few months ago."