"No, not all."
She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes lay, and began to read their titles. "Principles of Western Civilisation," "The Earth's Beginning," "Facts and Comments," "Education and Empire," "Philosophy and Life."
"Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice Maeterlinck," and she picked up the book and began to turn over the pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.
"Would you rather I talked to you?" she questioned, turning her face toward him with a smile.
"I think I would," he replied. "I am not much in the mood for philosophy to-day."
"But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll bring a book along with me."
"What will you bring?"
"I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?"
"When it is poetry."