“Ah,” said she, fixing her eyes on Irene’s book, “you are very fortunate.  The one thing I forgot to bring with me was a supply of books, and there is not a volume—­not even a prayer-book—­in the Bigbee house.  I shall go mad in these solitudes if I cannot read.”

“You may use my library,” promised Irene, sympathizing with Miss Lord’s desire.  “Uncle Peter brought a great box of books for me to read and you are welcome to share their delights with me, I believe there are fifty of them, at the least; but many were published ages ago and perhaps,” with a glance at the dainty hands, “you won’t care to handle secondhand books.”

“This ozonic air will fumigate them,” said Agatha Lord carelessly.  “We don’t absorb bindings, Irene, but merely the thoughts of the authors.  Books are the one banquet-table whereat we may feast without destroying the delicacy or flavor of the dishes presented.  As long as the pages hold together and the type is legible a book is as good as when new.”

“I like pretty bindings, though,” declared Irene, “for they dress pretty thoughts in fitting attire.  An ill-looking book, whatever its contents, resembles the ugly girl whose only redeeming feature is her good heart.  To be beautiful without and within must have been the desire of God in all things.”

Agatha gave her a quick look of comprehension.  There was an unconsciously wistful tone in the girl’s voice.  Her face, though pallid, was lovely to view; her dress was dainty and arranged with care; she earnestly sought to be as beautiful “without and within” as was possible, yet the twisted limbs forbade her attaining the perfection she craved.

They sat together for an hour in desultory conversation and Agatha Lord certainly interested the two younger girls very much.  She was decidedly worldly in much of her gossip but quick to perceive when she infringed the susceptibilities of her less sophisticated companions and was able to turn the subject cleverly to more agreeable channels.

“I’ve brought my automobile with me,” she said, “and, unless you have a car of your own, we will take some rides through the valley together.  I mean to drive to Millbank every day for mail.”

“There’s a car here, which belongs to Mr. Morrison,” replied Mary Louise, “but as none of us understands driving it we will gladly accept your invitations to ride.  Do you drive your own car?”

“Yes, indeed; that is the joy of motoring; and I care for my car, too, because the hired chauffeurs are so stupid.  I didn’t wish the bother of servants while taking my ‘rest cure,’ and so my maid and I are all alone at the Bigbee place.”

After a time they went into the house, where Miss Lord was presented to Aunt Hannah, who welcomed their neighbor with her accustomed cordiality.  In the den Agatha pounced upon the books and quickly selected two which she begged permission to take home with her.

“This is really a well selected collection,” she remarked, eyeing the titles critically.  “Where did Mr. Conant find it?”