while every day, Mrs. Maturin read aloud, usually from books of poetry.  And knowing many of the verses by heart, she would watch Janet’s face, framed in the soft dark hair that fell in two long plaits over her shoulders.  For Janet little guessed the thought that went into the choosing of these books, nor could she know of the hours spent by this lady pondering over library shelves or consulting eagerly with Brooks Insall.  Sometimes Augusta Maturin thought of Janet as a wildflower—­one of the rare, shy ones, hiding under its leaves; sprung up in Hampton, of all places, crushed by a heedless foot, yet miraculously not destroyed, and already pushing forth new and eager tendrils.  And she had transplanted it.  To find the proper nourishment, to give it a chance to grow in a native, congenial soil, such was her breathless task.  And so she had selected “The Child’s Garden of Verses.”

       “I should like to rise and go
        Where the golden apples grow"...

When she laid down her book it was to talk, perhaps, of Silliston.  Established here before the birth of the Republic, its roots were bedded in the soil of a racial empire, to a larger vision of which Augusta Maturin clung:  an empire of Anglo-Saxon tradition which, despite disagreements and conflicts—­nay, through them—­developed imperceptibly toward a sublimer union, founded not on dominion, but on justice and right.  She spoke of the England she had visited on her wedding journey, of the landmarks and literature that also through generations have been American birthrights; and of that righteous self-assertion and independence which, by protest and even by war, America had contributed to the democracy of the future.  Silliston, indifferent to cults and cataclysms, undisturbed by the dark tides flung westward to gather in deposits in other parts of the land, had held fast to the old tradition, stood ready to do her share to transform it into something even nobler when the time should come.  Simplicity and worth and beauty—­these elements at least of the older Republic should not perish, but in the end prevail.

She spoke simply of these things, connecting them with a Silliston whose spirit appealed to all that was inherent and abiding in the girl.  All was not chaos:  here at least, a beacon burned with a bright and steady flame.  And she spoke of Andrew Silliston, the sturdy colonial prototype of the American culture, who had fought against his King, who had spent his modest fortune to found this seat of learning, believing as he did that education is the cornerstone of republics; divining that lasting unity is possible alone by the transformation of the individual into the citizen through voluntary bestowal of service and the fruits of labour.  Samuel Wootton, the Boston merchant who had given the hospital, was Andrew’s true descendant, imbued with the same half-conscious intuition that builds even better that it reeks.  And Andrew, could he have returns to earth in his laced coat and long silk waistcoat, would still recognize his own soul in Silliston Academy, the soul of his creed and race.