Her mind grew in such companionship.  She lived no more alone:  she had found friends who sympathized with her.  Smiles and tears became frequent on her face, making it more beautiful. As You Like It was just as she liked it.  The forest of Arden was her forest.  Rosalind’s banished father was her father:  that busy man she had never seen.  With the book for interpreter she fell in love with her world over again.  Sunset and dawn possessed new charms; the little flowers seemed dignified; moonlight and fairy-land unveiled their mysteries; nothing was forgotten.  It appeared as if all the knowledge of the world was contained in those magic pages, and the master-key to this treasure, the dominant of this harmony, was love—­the word that Danby had taught her.  The word?  The feeling as well, and with the feeling—­all.

Circling from this passion as from a pole-star, all those great constellations of thought revolved.  With Lear’s madness was Cordelia’s affection; with the inhumanity of Shylock was Jessica’s trust; with the Moor’s jealousy was Desdemona’s devotion.  The sweet and bitter of life, religion, poetry and philosophy, ambition, revenge and superstition, controlled, created or destroyed by that little word.  And how they loved—­Perdita, Juliet, Miranda—­quickly and entirely, without shame, as she had loved Danby—­as buds bloom and birds warble.  Oh it was sweet, sweet, sweet!  Amid friends like these she became gay, moved briskly, grew rosy and sang.  This was her favorite song, to a melody she had caught from the river: 

      Under the greenwood tree
      Who loves to lie with me,
      And turn his merry note
      Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither: 
          Here shall he see
          No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

Four years passed by—­not all spent with one book, however.  Nellie’s desire for study grew with what it fed on.  This book opened the way for many.  Reading led to reflection; reflection, to observation; observation, to Nature; and thus in an endless round.

About this time her busy father remembered he possessed a “baby,” laid away somewhere, like an old parchment, and he concluded he would “look her up.”  His surprise was great when he saw the child a woman—­still greater when he observed her self-possession, her intelligence, and a certain quaint way she had of expressing herself that was charming in connection with her fresh young face.  She was neither diffident nor awkward, knowing too little of the world to fear, and having naturally that simplicity of manner which touches nearly upon high breeding.  But Mr. Archer being one of those men who think that “beauty should go beautifully,” her toilette shocked him.  Under the influence of her presence he felt that he had neglected her.  The whole house reproached him:  the few rooms that had been furnished were dilapidated and worn.