Then I shall read him with increased enjoyment."
"I wouldn't give Mark Twain for the lot," commented Dorothy with
decision.
"Mark Twain isn't yours to give, my dear. He belongs to me also.
You've forgotten that comparisons are odious. Our metier is not to
compare, but to take what pleases us from each.
'How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
Watts. You see, I'm still down among the W's. Oh, Dorothy, how can you
sit there so placidly when the 'Consternation' has just faded from
sight? Selfish creature!
'Oh, give me tears for others' woes
And patience for mine own.'
I don't know who wrote that, but you have no tears for others' woes,
merely greeting them with ribald laughter," for Dorothy, with the
well-read letter in her hand, was making the rafters ring with her
merriment, something that had never before happened during her long
tenancy of that room. Kate turned her head slowly round, and the
expression on her face was half-indignant, half-humorous, while her
eyes were uncertain weather prophets, and gave equal indication of
sunshine or rain.
"Why, Katherine, you look like a tragedy queen, rather than the spirit
of comedy! Is it really a case of 'Tit-willow, tit-willow,
tit-willow'? You see, I'm a-rescuing you from the bottom of the
alphabet, and bringing you up to the Gilbert plane, where I am more
accustomed to you, and understand you better.
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