over one eye, and the unbandaged eye was very red around the lids. Yet in spite of this he looked by no means like an invalid. He had a sturdy frame, his cheeks were full and round, and he had thick, wavy, dark brown hair.
Without a word of special greeting, Amy, who had been turning over the leaves of the book, handed it to Brenda.
“Oh, it’s yours!” she exclaimed, with an accent on the last word that seemed to Brenda to indicate more or less surprise.
“What is the name of the book? Who wrote it?” cried the boy, who, like most boys of sixteen, was of a curious disposition.
“‘The Countess,’” replied Amy, with an accent of scorn. “It’s trash, is n’t it?” and she turned to Brenda for confirmation.
“No, I don’t think so,” replied the latter; “I enjoy all her books. I ’ve read almost all she’s written.”
“Well, you must be fond of trash!”
“No, I’m not; it does n’t seem to me any more trash than what I heard you reading; that sounded very silly.” Brenda would not have admitted now that she had been really interested in the poetry.
“‘The Faery Queen!’” Amy gazed at Brenda in amazement. “Why, it’s the finest poetry there is; why I’ve read about Una and her lion over and over again. Yes, it’s the very best poetry, and poetry is always better than novels.”
