made it young.

VI

A Letter

Roses rioted through East Lancaster and made the gardens glorious with
bloom. The year was at its bridal and every chalice was filled with
fragrant incense. Bees, powdered with pollen, hummed slowly back and
forth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gossamer wings came in drowsy
melody from the distant clover fields.

"June," sang Iris to herself, "June--Oh June, sweet June!"

She was getting ready for her daily trip to the post-office. Once in a
great while there would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving.
Lynn also had an intermittent correspondent or two, but the errand
usually proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving's letter had lain
nearly two weeks in Miss Field's box, uncalled for, it had been a point
of honour with Iris to see that such a thing did not happen again.

Books and papers were supplied in abundance by the local circulating
library, and the high bookcases at Miss Field's were well filled with
standard literature. Iris read everything she could lay her hands upon.
Mere print exercised a certain fascination over her mind, and she had
conscientiously finished every book that she had begun. Those early
years, after all, are the most important. The old books are the best,
and how few of us "have the time" to read them!

Ten years of browsing in a well equipped library will do much for
anyone, and Iris had made the most of her opportunities. This girl of
twenty, hemmed about by the narrow standards of East Lancaster, had a
broad outlook upon life, a large view, that would have done credit to a
woman of twice her age. From the beginning, the people of the books had
been real to her, and she had filled the old house with the fairy
figures of romance.

Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. No
matter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. The
weary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love and
friendship have proved powerless to appreciate or understand, but in
the quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf,
perhaps, suffices for one's few treasures, but who shall say it is not
enough?

A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, but
upon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in the
right way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listening
eagerly, one may fancy, for the command.

Is your world a small one, ma