We Two | Page 6

one of those people who take life easily; things went very
deeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite of her
readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, and her singularly quick
perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graver
impressions.
Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her small
domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her; but
her mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had
spoken of the vexations which might be shared. There was something
inspiriting in that thought, certainly, for Erica worshipped her father.
By degrees the trouble and indignation died away, and a very sweet
look stole over the grave little face.
A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-colored
wall, and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps
recognizing the scatter of its daily bread.
"After all," though Erica, "with ourselves and the animals, we might let
the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turn the
animals and birds against us! That would be worse than anything."
Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took out
of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.
"Still sixpence of my prize money over," she remarked to herself; "I'll
go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them."
Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to
be had at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy
scones which she considered worthy the name, and that was at the
Scotch baker's in Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet
pavements, glad that the rain was over, for as soon as her purchase was
completed she made up her mind to indulge for a few minutes in what
had lately become a very frequent treat, namely a pause before a certain
tempting store of second-hand books. She had never had money
enough to buy anything except the necessary school books, and, being
a great lover of poetry, she always seized with avidity on anything that
was to be found outside the book shop. Sometimes she would carry
away a verse of Swinburne, which would ring in her ears for days and
days; sometimes she would read as much as two or three pages of
Shelley. No one had every interrupted her, and a certain sense of

impropriety and daring was rather stimulating than otherwise. It always
brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs of Solomon, "Stolen
waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant."
For three successive days she had found to her great delight
Longfellow's "Hiawatha." The strange meter, the musical Indian names,
the delightfully described animals, all served to make the poem
wonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of
"Hiawatha" would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this
afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one hand and the book in the
other she read on happily, quite unconscious that three pair of eyes
were watching her from within the shop.
The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had
two customers, a tall, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly eyes,
and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged with her
umbrella in Gower Street.
"An outside customer for you," remarked Charles Osmond, the
clergyman, glancing at the shop keeper. Then to his son, "What a
picture she makes!"
Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had been
turning over.
"Why that's my little Gower Street friend," he exclaimed, the words
being somehow surprised out of him, though he would fain have
recalled them the next minute.
"I don't interrupt her," said the shop owner. "Her father has done a great
deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy for poetry, and
don't get much of it in her life, I'll be bound."
"Why, who is she?" asked Charles Osmond, who was on very friendly
terms with the old book collector.
"She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn," was the reply, "and whatever
folks may say, I know that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life."
Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at his
heart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn! And Luke Raeburn
was an atheist leader!
For a few minutes he lost consciousness of time and place, though
always seeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over her
book. The shop keeper's casual remark had been a fearful blow to him;
yet, as he came to himself again, his heart went out more and more to

the beautiful girl who had been