book—rather dreary. Truly. I warn you. You found me in tears, remember."
"Don't think again about that," he said to me. "Please. Listen. I always try to take home to the little white-haired lady something pleasant every night—a rose or a couple of pinks, or an incident of some sort to please her, never anything dreary. You, looking at the picture of the little sick girl, are to be the gift tonight." And then suddenly embarrassed, he added hastily, "I'm afraid you're awfully wet. I ought to be shot. Perhaps you preferred to ride. You're covered with mist. And perhaps it's spoiled something." He glanced at my hat.
"No, it hasn't," I assured him, "and good night. I can get in all right."
"Oh, let me"
"No, please," I insisted.
"Very well," he acquiesced. And I gave him my hand and sped up the walk.
He waited until the door was opened to me, and then, "Good night," came his clear, pleasant voice to me from out of the rainy dark.
I went straight upstairs to my room. I felt as if I had just drunk long and deep of pure cold water. Tired and travel-worn I had been, uncertain of my way, disheartened, spent; and then suddenly across my path had appeared an unexpected brook, crystal clear, soul-refreshing. I had rested by it a moment, listened to its cheerful murmur, lifted up a little of its coolness in the hollow of my hand, and drunk. I
