In this little book John had copied out for me some sweet quaint rhymes which were favourites of his and mine, and because I had thought the writing and the writer could never be glorified enough, I had wrought round the margin of the pages a border of fanciful arabesque, which I had filled in with colours and gold.
I turned over the pages absently.

By and by I heard footsteps coming down the gallery, and voices drawing near me.

I hoped that, whoever the people were, they might pass on without perceiving me.

I did not like the idea of strangers peeping in behind the screen and wondering who I could be.

But the people came nearer, still conversing in low earnest tones, the sound of which made me start and wonder.