other on the long drive to the nearest doctor. The last ten miles it was a dead child she held in her arms.
When Boggley finished I was silent, remembering the little chintz-covered chair—empty but for a broken doll.
Now that I have tasted the joys of solitude I don't see how I am to enjoy living in a crowd again. I am practically alone all day, for Boggley has long distances to ride and bicycle—and I never was so happy in my life. I write, and I read, and I fold my hands in newly acquired Oriental calm (which my bustling, busy little mother most certainly won't admire), and sit looking before me for hours.
The books lent me by various people are all read long ago, and I have gone back to those that are always with me.
They are all before me as I write. The little fat green one at the end of the row is Lamb's Essays of Elia: he so well fits some moods, and certain minutes of the day, that gentle writer. Next is my Pilgrim's Progress, the one I have had since my tenth birthday. Father gave each of us a copy when we reached the mature age of ten. It was only on high days and holy-days that we were allowed to look at his own treasured copy, which
