sat at last, with her affairs in order, to await events. Every
day she expected something entirely new to happen, and was
never disappointed. For she herself always happened, if
nothing else did; she could no more repeat herself than the
sunrise can; and the liveliest visitor always carried away
something fresher and more remarkable than he brought.

Her book that morning had displeased her, and she was boiling
with indignation against its author.

"I am reading a book so dry," she said, "it makes me cough. No
wonder there was a drought last summer. It was printed then.
Worcester's Geography seems in my memory as fascinating as
Shakespeare, when I look back upon it from this book. How can a
man write such a thing and live?"

"Perhaps he lived by writing it," said Kate.

"Perhaps it was the best he could do," added the more literal
Harry.

"It certainly was not the best he could do, for he might have
died,--died instead of dried. O, I should like to prick that
man with something sharp, and see if sawdust did not run out of
him! Kate, ask the bookseller to let me know if he ever really
dies, and then life may seem fresh again."

"What is it?" asked Kate.

"Somebody's memoirs," said Aunt Jane. "Was there no man left