much; for it was of very bad paper and in most miserable
little type. But it was a precious treasure to Winthrop. His
heart yearned after some Greek books, but his hand was stayed;
there was nothing more in it. He had only got the Virgil and
dictionary by favour eking out his eight shillings, for the
books were declared to be worth ten. So he trudged off home
again with his purchases under his arm, well content. That
Virgil and dictionary were a guide of the way for a good piece
of the mountain. Now to get up it.

He had got home and was turning the books over with Mr.
Glanbally, just in the edge of the evening, when the door
opened quick and a little female figure came in. She came
close up to the table with the air of one quite at home.

"Good evening, Mr. Glanbally -- father told me to give you this
letter."

Winthrop looked at her, and Mr. Glanbally looked at the
letter. She was a slight little figure, a child, not more than
thirteen or fourteen at the outside, perhaps not so much, but
tall of her age. A face not like those of the Asphodel
children. She did not once look towards him.

"Why I thought you were in Mannahatta, Miss Elizabeth."

"Just going there -- we have just come from Little River on our
way."

"This letter is for you, Winthrop," said Mr. Glanbally,