He shook his head soberly, and leaned forward to read the titles.  There were no very new ones, as if times had been hard of late; almost every volume was either history, or biography, or travel.  Their owner had reached out of her own narrow boundaries into other lives and into far countries.  He recognized with gratitude two or three congressional books that he had sent her when he first went to Washington, and there was a life of himself, written from a partisan point of view, and issued in one of his most exciting campaigns; the sight of it touched him to the heart, and then she opened it, and showed him the three or four letters that he had written her,—­one, in boyish handwriting, describing his adventures on his first Western journey.

“There are a hundred and six volumes now,” announced the proud owner of such a library.  “I lend ’em all I can, or most of them would look better.  I have had to wait a good while for some, and some weren’t what I expected ’em to be, but most of ’em’s as good books as there is in the world.  I’ve never been so situated that it seemed best for me to indulge in a daily paper, and I don’t know but it’s just as well; but stories were never any great of a temptation.  I know pretty well what’s goin’ on about me, and I can make that do.  Real life’s interestin’ enough for me.”

Mr. Laneway was still looking over the books.  His heart smote him for not being thoughtful; he knew well enough that the overflow of his own library would have been delightful to this self-denying, eager-minded soul.  “I’ve been a very busy man all my life, Abby,” he said impulsively, as if she waited for some apology for his forgetfulness, “but I’ll see to it now that you have what you want to read.  I don’t mean to lose hold of your advice on state matters.”  They both laughed, and he added, “I’ve always thought of you, if I haven’t shown it.”

“There’s more time to read than there used to be; I’ve had what was best for me,” answered the woman gently, with a grateful look on her face, as she turned to glance at her old friend.  “Marilla takes hold wonderfully and helps me with the work.  In the long winter evenings you can’t think what a treat a new book is.  I wouldn’t change places with the queen.”

They had come back to the kitchen, and she stood before the cupboard, reaching high for two old gayly striped crockery mugs.  There were some doughnuts and cheese at hand; their early supper seemed quite forgotten.  The kitchen was warm, and they had talked themselves thirsty and hungry; but with what an unexpected tang the cider freshened their throats!  Mrs. Hender had picked the apples herself that went to the press; they were all chosen from the old russet tree and the gnarly, red-cheeked, ungrafted fruit that grew along the lane.  The flavor made one think of frosty autumn mornings on high hillsides, of north winds and sunny skies.  “It ’livens one to the heart,” as Mrs. Hender remarked proudly, when the Senator tried to praise it as much as it deserved, and finally gave a cheerful laugh, such as he had not laughed for many a day.