The letters slowly came to her one by one, bringing behind them the first word of the title; but they seemed to Rita to be in her own brain more than on the paper. It was a hard moment for Rita.
"He made me say them one word at a time. He was so good to me! Yes, I can say them now. I know what they mean. Oh, so long ago! so long ago!"
There was no longer any doubt about it. Rita could read English. Not very easily or rapidly at first, and many of the words she came to puzzled her exceedingly. Perhaps some of them also would come back to her after a while. Some of them had always been strangers, for the very brightest little girls of seven or eight, even when they read well, and have their fathers to help them, are but at the beginning of their acquaintance with "hard words."
"I shall know what the pictures mean now. But I will not tell anybody a word about it. Only Ni-ha-be."
[to be continued.]
[THE MAN WHO CARED FOR NOBODY.]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
This is the song the miller sang,
The selfish miller of Dee:
"I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me."
He ate and drank, and worked and slept,
Money and land had he,
But never a poorer mortal slept
Than the selfish miller of Dee.
The village maids grew good and fair,
But they grew not near his life;
His hearth-stone only held one chair—
He had no room for a wife.
No woman's footstep, quick and light,
Came down the silent stair
To bless him every morn and night
With kisses unaware.
The village lads and lasses knew
The charm of the old mill-race;
Oh, what a happy little crew
Oft made it their playing-place!
But none of them climbed the miller's knee
When the evening shades fell dim;
He cared for nobody, no, not he,
And nobody cared for him.
So he lived alone, he had no kin;
And in all the country-side
There wasn't a mortal cared a pin
Whether he lived or he died.
The women gave him never a smile,
The men had nothing to say,
No friend e'er crossed his garden stile,
No stranger wished him good-day.
He lived alone, and he died alone,
So his selfish life was sped;
They found him cold on his cold hearth-stone—
The miller of Dee was dead.
And no one cared to see his face,
No eye for him grew dim;
He cared for nobody, no, not he,
And nobody cared for him.
To share our life is to double our life;
And what if it double its care?
Loving can lighten the hardest strife,
Loving can make it fair.
Better to love, though love should die,
Than say, like the miller of Dee,
"I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me."