Lyndesay thanked him.

"They came after you left, and she said you'd be wanting them, thank
you!" And he drove on, leaving the source of his emotion quite
unconscious of him or it, intent upon opening the first of the letters.

"They are too long to read as I walk," she said, and chose a comfortable
secluded spot to sit. "Let me think. It was a year ago in March that I
saw Hannah first, there at Three Gables, when she had just come back
from Germany, and was homesick and missed her mother so. She did
Catherine as much good as Catherine did her. They are a pair of charming
children, as different as April and October. I think I will save
Hannah's letter for the last. It's sure to be exciting, and Catherine's
should be read in a calm spirit." Accordingly she opened Catherine's and
glancing with a smile over the tabulated statement of the health of the
various members of the family, regularly included since her complaint
that no such information was ever granted her, began to read the letter
proper:

"_Dearest Aunt Clara:_

"Algernon is away at a district meeting. I believe that is what he calls
it. He is quite elated over the opportunity and Polly and I are taking
charge of the library while he is gone. I hardly see Algernon any more.
He is so busy all the time, and he is simply sought after. People seem
to think he is an infallible authority, now that he is librarian, and he
does seem to know everything. He reads everything and has an intelligent
way of telling what you want to know. I'm quite impressed by him,
myself. Of course, he talks technicalities a lot, and he acts grieved
sometimes because the rest of us don't take the library quite so
seriously as he does. The others are rather tired of it by now, except
Polly and Bertha and Agnes. I really enjoy it, and I come in often
nowadays, because I know when Hannah and Frieda get here, I won't have
so much time for it. The children are fond of Algernon and he remembers
the funny things they say and tells them--(it's the first time he ever
had anything amusing to say on any subject!)--Peter Osgood wanted _The
Wail of the Sandal Swag_, and a little girl asked for _Timothy
Squst_. (If that's how you spell it. It rhymed with 'crust.') The
children aren't the only funny ones. A man came in this afternoon and
asked for _Edith Breed_, and it proved he wanted _He That Eateth
Bread With Me_, and one forlorn-looking creature handed me a slip of
paper with _Doan the Dark_ writte