ET DEAM VIDIMUS
She spoke of him to Carron, one afternoon, as they walked on into the house, through the long passage.
"He gets lost in them," she said, meaning the books, "just as we do in the hills. He forgets everything, even to go to bed. He has had beautiful books from the time when he could buy such things, and mother would never let him part with one of them."
"Why, did he want to?"
"O, of course not. I meant when we were so terribly—poor, and he could have sold even a few for a good deal of money, mother would never even ask him. She did everything, rather than that. She used to patch our shoes herself. She loves him terribly. She would do anything for him."
"And he?" Carron prompted.
Blanche shrugged, and shook her head. "He is fond of us, of course, but, well—we are not books, that is our shortcoming. They're more to him than any person is. It is hard to understand." She gathered her forehead. "Mother doesn't, but she accepts it."
Such facts fell rather quaintly from her mouth, bare facts, observed of people. She showed the same direct comprehension in regard to certain other persons whom he became indirectly acquainted with, her many correspondents. These evidently were people who had stayed at the hotel for a space, and
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