"We have our little girl back again," she observed to Aunt Nettie.
"I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away," Aunt Nettie said. "Missy's a
regular chameleon."
It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would
have interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the
perplexing vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she
was quite happy: for she found two books, each the right kind,
though different. One was called "Famous Heroines of Medieval
Legend." They all had names of strange beauty and splendour--
Guinevere--Elaine--Vivien--names which softly rustled in syllables
of silken brocade. The other book was no less satisfying. It was a
book of poems--wonderful poems, by a man named Swinburne--lilting,
haunting things of beauty which washed through her soul like the
waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the choicest verses over and
over till she knew them by heart:
Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief
with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran . . .
and, equally lovely:
From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank
with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives
forever; that dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river
winds somewhere safe to sea .
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