“Yes, I know, Serena.”
“You bettah dress you’se’f.”
“Please, only a little longer.”
“You gwine be fo’ced to be mighty spry den,” warned the old negress as she waddled into the house.
“Oh, how wonderful,” breathed the girl, a great joy suddenly showing in her face. “It’s for me–from mother. Really.”
The worn volume lay open in her lap. It contained selections from the works of many poets. Upon the page before her these lines, taken from Coleridge’s, “The Ancient Mariner,” were printed,
“He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small:
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”