Her fingers rested upon his. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. . . For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about.
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