Mrs. Maidment fanned herself and gazed at the glory before her.
"Well, I don't know, master," she said. "I'm not one for reading myself, except the newspaper and a chapter in the Bible of a Sunday. But my daughter's fond of her book—she might feel inclined. Here, Mary Ellen!—here's a man at the door selling books."
Miss Mary Ellen Maidment, a comely damsel of nineteen with bright eyes and peach-like cheeks, emerged expectant from the kitchen. The itinerant bookseller greeted her with more bows and smiles.
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mary Ellen, lifting up her hands. "What a lot of beautiful books!"
"Your ma said you were fond of your book, miss," said the owner of this intellectual treasure mine. "Yes, miss, this is an especially fine line. What's your taste, now, miss? Poetry?"
"I like a good piece," answered Mary Ellen.
The itinerant selected two gorgeously bound volumes, and deftly balancing them on the palm of one hand, pointed to their glories with the outstretched forefinger of the other.
"'The Complete Poetical Works of Mrs. H*ee*mans,'" he said. "A very sweet thing that, miss—one of the best articles in the poetry line." He pointed to the other. "'The Works of the late Eliza Cook.' A very superior production that, miss. It was that talented lady who wrote 'The Old Arm-Chair,' of which you have no doubt heard."
"I learnt it once at school," said Mary Ellen. "Have you got any tales?"
"Tales, miss—yes, miss," replied the vendor, setting Mrs. Hemans and Miss Cook aside, and selecting a few more volumes. "Here's a beautiful tale by the talented Emma Jane Worboise, the most famous authoress of her day."