For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Mr. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. Thank you for the books. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance.
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