she saw the
sea. She walked on the beach; she sat on the rocks; she learned to swim in
one lesson, and swam so far out that her uncle dared not follow, and
called to her in imploring terror to return. Her beauty grew more and more
radiant every day. This the sea gave to her body. But there was a far
subtler new life than the physical, a far finer new birth than the birth
of beauty,--which came to Draxy here. This, books gave to her soul. Only a
few years before, a free library had been founded in this town, by a rich
and benevolent man. Every week hundreds of volumes circulated among the
families where books were prized, and could not be owned. When Draxy's
uncle first took her into this library, and explained to her its purpose
and regulations, she stood motionless for a few moments, looking at
him--and at the books: then, with tears in her eyes, and saying, "Don't
follow me, uncle dear; don't mind me, I can't bear it," she ran swiftly
into the street, and never stopped until she had reached home and found
her father. An hour later she entered the library again, leading her
father by the hand. She had told him the story on the way. Reuben's thin
cheeks were flushed. It was almost more than he too could bear. Silently
the father and daughter walked up and down the room, looking into the
alcoves. Then they sat down together, and studied the catalogue. Then
they rose and went out, hand in hand as they had entered, speaking no
word, taking no book. For one day the consciousness of this wealth filled
their hearts beyond the possibility of one added desire. After that, Draxy
and her father were to be seen every night seated at the long table in the
reading-room. They read always together, Draxy's arm being over the back
of her father's chair. Many a man and many a woman stopped and looked long
at the picture. But neither Draxy nor her father knew it.

At the end of two years, Draxy Miller had culture. She was ignorant still,
of course; she was an uneducated girl; she wept sometimes over her own
deficiencies; but her mind was stored with information of all sorts; she
had added Wordsworth to her Shakespeare; she had journeyed over the world
with every traveller whose works she could find; and she had tasted of
Plato and Epictetus. Reuben's unfailing simplicity and purity of taste
saved her from the mischiefs of many of the modern books. She had hardly
read a single novel; but her love of true poetry was a passion.

In the mean