did she learn? Near the top of the large page the first
word, "love." It ended a sentence and stood conspicuous, which was the
reason it had caught the eye of the eager boy when he began to teach.
What did it mean? What went before? What after? It was a long time
before she asked herself these questions, for her understanding had
not formed the habit of being curious. Previously her eyes alone had
sight, now her intellect commenced seeing. What was the web of which
this word was the woof, knitting together, underlying, now appearing,
now hidden, but always there? She turned the leaves and counted where
it recurred again and again, like a bird repeating one sweet note, of
which it never tires. Then the larger type in the middle of each page
drew her attention: she read, _As You Like It_. "What do I like? This
story is perhaps as I like it. I wonder what it is about? I don't care
now for pirates and robbers: I liked them when _he_ read to me, but
not now." Her thoughts then wandered off to Danby, and she read no
more that day.

However, Nellie had plenty of time before her, and when her thinking
was ended she would return to her text. I do not know how long a time
it required for her to connect the sentence that followed the word
"love;" but it became clear to her finally, just as a difficult puzzle
will sometimes resolve itself as you are idly regarding it. And this
is what she saw: "Love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an
unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal." The phrase struck her as
if it was her own, and for the first time in her life she blushed.
She did not know much about the bay of Portugal, it is true, but she
understood the rest. From that time forth the book possessed a strange
interest for her. Much that she did not comprehend she passed by.
Often for several days she would not find a passage that pleased her,
but when such a one was discovered her slow perusal of it and long
dwelling on it gave a beauty and power to the sentiment that more
expert students might have lost. I cannot describe the almost feverish
effect upon her of that poetical quartette beginning with--

Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

How she hung over it, smiled at it, brightening into delight at the
echo of her own feelings! In the raillery of Rosalind her heart found
words to speak; and her sense and wit were awakened by the sarcasm of
the same character. "Pray you, no more of this: 'tis like the how