books. Valancy was never allowed to read novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels. They were “nature books” — so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling — ”all about the woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.” So Valancy was allowed to read them — under protest, for it was only too evident that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing for her. They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.