"Dialect!" the doctor repeated, scornfully, his eyes roving to the shabby ancients on his shelves. "Bring me Horace—that's a good girl. No—yes." His hand lingered over hers that offered him the book. "Child," he said, looking her keenly in the eyes, "do you find it so hard to brave that lion?"
"Oh no, father. I didn't mean I was afraid, only he's so—woolly. You can hardly make out his eyes, and fire sputters through his old spectacles. I think he never combs his hair."
"Does he ever grumble at you?"
"Oh no"—and here she laughed—"that is, I never give him time; I run away."
The old poet made no reply to her, but went on holding that soft little hand with the Horace in it, and gazing thoughtfully at his daughter's face.
"We can send it by mail," he said at last.
That roused Letitia.
"Oh, not at all!" she cried. "Why, I'm proud to take it, father. Mr. Butters isn't so dreadful—if he is fuzzy. I'm sure he'll print it. There was that letter from Mr. Banks last week, a column long, on carrots."
He smiled dryly at her over his opened book.
"If only my 'Jerusalem' were artichokes instead of Saracens!" he said.