“Just what you need.”
Esther hummed a bar here and there as she turned the pages. She was in an ecstasy of content. A lilting joyousness of Glenn Andrews’ presence was in everything she did and said.
They lingered over the Christmas dinner. Mr. Campbell told yarns of the olden times when he was a boy on that holiday. He took his pleasure in their company at the table, and afterwards left them alone again.
They made an exceptionably cozy picture, sitting together in front of the wood fire. It was beautiful to see the snow outside, falling in tiny siftings, displaced by the snow birds’ restless stirring.
Glenn and Esther were so comfortable. How could it be winter out there. He smoked and she read him selections from his own poems—the ones she liked best. He had no idea she could read so well—it must have been her reading them that made them sound better than he had ever thought them before. There was a slow unfolding of her woman nature as he watched her. It was almost imperceptible, yet so much surer than a sudden burst.
“You’ll keep on with your lessons?” he asked.
“After this year grandpa won’t be able to afford it.”
“But it will never do for you to stop now. I was talking with the professor the other day about your art. He is interested in it. He wants to study English; maybe he would exchange—if you could teach him. Do you think you could?”
“What! I a teacher?” She clasped her hands involuntarily. “But suppose he’d let me try?”
“I’ll see if he will.”