Here she came day after day, when her work was done, to pore over the musty old volumes of tales forgotten long ago.
In Betty's little room under the roof at home was a pile of handsomely bound books, lying on a chest beside her mother's Bible.

They were twelve in all, and had come in several different Christmas boxes, and each one had Betty's name on the fly-leaf, with the date of the Christmas on which it happened to be sent.

Underneath was always written: "From your loving godmother, Elizabeth Lloyd Sherman." Excepting a few school-books and some out-of-date census reports, they were the only books in the Appleton house.

Betty guarded them like a little dragon.

They were the only things she owned that the children were not allowed to touch.