“Our library isn’t very extensive,” said Anne, “but every book in it is a friend. We’ve picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to the race of Joseph.”
Leslie laughed—beautiful laughter that seemed akin to all the mirth that had echoed through the little house in the vanished years.
“I have a few books of father’s—not many,” she said. “I’ve read them until I know them almost by heart. I don’t get many books. There’s a circulating library at the Glen store—but I don’t think the committee who pick the books for Mr. Parker know what books are of Joseph’s race—or perhaps they don’t care. It was so seldom I got one I really liked that I gave up getting any.”
“I hope you’ll look on our bookshelves as your own,” said Anne.
“You are entirely and wholeheartedly welcome to the loan of any book on them.”
“You are setting a feast of fat things before me,” said Leslie, joyously. Then, as the clock struck ten, she rose, half unwillingly.
“I must go. I didn’t realise it was so late. Captain Jim is always saying it doesn’t take long to stay an hour. But I’ve stayed two—and oh, but I’ve enjoyed them,” she added frankly.
“Come often,” said Anne and Gilbert. They had risen and stood together in the firelight’s glow. Leslie looked at them—youthful, hopeful, happy,
