Neither did he feel much now, save as owing her something beyond mere acknowledgment.

But was there anything now he could do for her--anything in her he could help?
He did not know.

What she really was, he could not tell.

She was a fresh, bright girl--that he seemed to have just discovered; and, as she sat polishing the stirrup, her hair shaken about her shoulders, she looked engaging; but whether she was one he could do anything for that was worth doing, was hardly the less a question for those discoveries.
"There must be _something_ in the girl!" he said to himself--then suddenly reflected that he had never seen a book in her hand, except her prayer-book; how _was_ he to do anything for a girl like that?
For Godfrey knew no way of doing people good without the intervention of books.

How could he get near one that had no taste for the quintessence of humanity?
How was he to offer her the only help he had, when she desired no such help?
"But," he continued, reflecting further, "she may have thirsted, may even now be athirst, without knowing that books are the bottles of the water of life!" Perhaps, if he could make her drink once, she would drink again.