She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect, that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. Jeremiah Jackson, and Mr. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. You observe that I am, as usual, fairly cheerful, and moderately amiable.
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