Beth was only too glad to do so. She began at once. Eliza was back in the room before she had finished.
“Where did you get such fairy-tales?” asked the tramp. “I’ve read all that ever came in book form, but I missed these.”
Eliza tapped her forehead. “Here,” she said. “Don’t you think it was a pleasure to get them out?”
“Have you written them?” It was surprising how concise, how direct the tramp could be when he chose.
“Write them? I never thought of such a thing. I made up the stories simply to please Beth. I am not an author.”
“You don’t know what you are,” he said. “You have never found yourself, Miss Eliza. No one knows how great a thing he may be. In each soul lies an unexplored country. Be a Columbus to your own soul.”
He took up his hat and moved to the door. “I want you to write down these stories Beth told me. Don’t bother trying to make them fine. Scribble them. This is not a request, Miss Eliza. This is a command.”
Eliza had no time to remonstrate. The tramp was gone before she could reply.
“I would do it, Adee.” Beth smiled whimsically to herself and added, as she did when she was a baby, “Please, pretty lady.”
It was impossible to withstand both of these. Eliza began the very next day when Beth was away at school. She took tablet and pencil and, sitting down by the open grate, wrote just as she had told the stories to Beth. There was no attempt at fine writing. Her language was simple as a child’s. There were even quite serious mistakes in grammar and punctuation. The hours passed quickly. Beth was home from school before Eliza realized it. She had been happy all afternoon—happy in a different way from what she had been all these years.