pavements, glad that the rain was over, for as soon as her purchase
was completed she made up her mind to indulge for a few minutes in
what had lately become a very frequent treat, namely a pause before
a certain tempting store of second-hand books. She had never had
money enough to buy anything except the necessary school books,
and, being a great lover of poetry, she always seized with avidity
on anything that was to be found outside the book shop. Sometimes
she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which would ring in her
ears for days and days; sometimes she would read as much as two or
three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her, and a
certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating than
otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs
of Solomon, "Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is
pleasant."

For three successive days she had found to her great delight
Longfellow's "Hiawatha." The strange meter, the musical Indian
names, the delightfully described animals, all served to make the
poem wonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of
"Hiawatha" would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this
afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one hand and the book in
the other she read on happily, quite unconscious that three pair of
eyes were watching her from within the shop.

The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had
two customers, a tall, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly
eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged
with her umbrella in Gower Street.

"An outside customer for you," remarked Charles Osmond, the