Missy liked books that lifted
you up. She loved the long-drawn introspections of George Eliot and
Augusta J. Evans; the tender whimsy of Barrie as she'd met him
through "Margaret Ogilvie" and "Sentimental Tommy"; the fascinating
mysteries of Marie Corelli; the colourful appeal of "To Have and To
Hold" and the other "historical romances" which were having a vogue
in that era; and Kipling's India!--that was almost best of all. She
had outgrown most of her earlier loves--Miss Alcott whom she'd once
known intimately, and "Little Lord Fauntleroy" and "The Birds'
Christmas Carol" had survived, too, her brief illicit passion for
the exotic product of "The Duchess." And she didn't respond keenly
to many of the "best sellers" which were then in their spectacular,
flamboyantly advertised heyday; somehow they failed to stimulate the
mind, stir the imagination, excite the emotions--didn't lift you up.
Yet she could find plenty of books in the Library which satisfied.
Now she sat, reading the introspections of "Romola" till she felt
her own soul stretching out--up and beyond the gas table-lamp
glowing there in such lovely serenity through its gold-glass shade;
felt it aching to express something, she knew not what.
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