A New Book
"A new book—that is, one that we've never seen before. There is a large box of father's books behind some trunks in the attic, and I never found them until Sunday, when I was rummaging around up there. I haven't read them—I thought I'd make a list of them first, and you can choose those you'd like to have me read to you. I brought this little one because I was sure you'd like it, after reading Endymion and The Eve of St. Agnes."
"What is it?"
"Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne."
The little brown book was old and its corners were dog-eared, but the yellowed pages, with their record of a deathless passion, were still warmly human and alive. Roger had a deep, pleasant voice, and he read well. Quite apart from the beauty of the letters, it gave Barbara pleasure to sit in the firelight and watch his face.
A Folded Paper
He read steadily, pausing now and then for comment, until he was half-way through the volume; then, as he turned a page, a folded paper fell out. He picked it up curiously.
"Why, Barbara," he said, in astonishment. "It's my father's writing."
"What is it—notes?"
"No, he seems to have been trying to write a letter like those in the book. It is all in pencil, with changes and erasures here and there. Listen: