"Mother hadn't. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty
says there was no copy of father's poems among mother's books.
Mother didn't care for poetry, Aunty says--Aunty doesn't
either. Father went to Europe after mother died, and he died
there the next year. Nothing that he had with him was ever
sent home to us. He had sold most of his books before he went,
but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for
me. HIS book wasn't among them. I don't suppose I shall ever
find a copy, but I should be so delighted if I only could."

When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer
an inlaid box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp
volume, wrapped in tissue paper--the Old Lady's most treasured
possession. On the fly-leaf was written, "To Margaret, with
the author's love."

The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers
and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses,
although she had known them all by heart for years. She meant
to give the book to Sylvia for a birthday present--one of the
most precious gifts ever given, if the value of gifts is
gauged by the measure of self-sacrifice involved. In that
little book was immortal love--old laughter--old tears--old
beauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago, holding still
its sweetness like old rose leaves.
She removed the telltale fly-leaf; and late on the night
before Sylvia's birthday, the Old Lady crept, under cover of
the darkness, through byways and across fields, as if bent on
some nefarious expedition, to the little Spencervale store