Rose set out a lounging-chair on the porch, put beside it a foot-stool and a rude little table, made by a guide, and following her aunt to her room, came back laughing with an arm-load of books. Archibald Lyndsay smiled.
“No wonder that man at St. Lambert’s groaned over Anne’s trunk.”
“That delightful man!” cried Rose, “who checked baggage, switched the trains off and on, sold tickets, answered questions, and did the work of three and laughed for six. He told papa ‘he guessed he wasn’t no Canadian. Not much! Had to go down to York State once a year to eat pumpkin-pie and get sot up—kind of.’”
“He was of the best type of our people,” said Lyndsay. “Come, Rose; Anne appears to be reasonably supplied.”
“I should think so, papa. But I must see,—wait a bit.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, picking the books up in turn, “‘Massillon,’ ‘Feuchtersleben,’ what a name! ‘Dietetics of the Soul,’ what a droll business! ‘The Mystery of Pain,’[‘The Mystery of Pain,’] my poor Anne! ‘History of the Council of Trent,’ good gracious!”
At this moment his sister reappeared. “Are you supplied for the morning, Anne? Past risk of famine, eh!”
“Not, too heavily,” she said. “You know what Marcus Aurelius says about books. ‘There is nothing as economical as a bad memory, because then there ariseth no need to buy many books.’ That is my case.”
“Then this is all,” laughed Lyndsay, pointing with his pipe-stem to the table. “Hum! Well, well! Come, Rose.”
“Yes, go!” cried Anne, seating herself, “and take with you Epictetus. ‘If that which is of another’s life perplex thy judgment, go a-fishing,—for there thou shall find more innocent uncertainties, and will capture the whale wisdom, if thou takest nothing else.’ You may recall the passage. Carp might have been the fish. Eh, Archie?”