on her seven hills was a prose-poem in itself. I was so interested that
I read on and on and forgot it was almost toast-apple time.

Of course, anybody that is anybody would be interested in Father Tiber
and the old Colosseum, but what made me forget the one slice of dry
toast and the apple was the way he seemed to be connecting me up with
all those wonderful old antiquities that had never even seen me. Because
of me he had felt and written that poem descriptive of old Tiber, and
the moonlight had lit up the Colosseum just because I was over here
lighting up Hillsboro, Tennessee, with Mr. Carter dead. Of course that
is not the way he put it all, but there is no place to really copy what
he did say down into this imp book and, anyway, that is the sentiment he
expressed, boiled down and sugared off.

That's just what I mean--love boiled down and sugared off is mighty apt
to get an explosive flavor, and one had better be careful with that kind
if one is timid; which I'm not. As I said, also, I am ready for a little
taste of life, so I read on without fear. And, to be fair, Alfred had
well boiled his own last paragraph. It snapped; and I jumped and gasped
both. I almost thought I didn't quite like it and was going to read it
over again to see, when there came a procession from over to Doctor
John's and I laid the bombshell down on the bench.

First came the red setter that is always first with Doctor John, and
then he came himself, leading Billy by the hand. It was Billy, but the
most subdued Billy I ever saw, and I held out my arms and started for
him.

"Wait a minute, please, Molly," said the doctor in the voice he always
uses when he's punishing Billy and me. "Bill came to apologize to you