`` I do not think so , '' she wrote . `` I do not know much of the world , but I do not think there are many people like you in it . '' One evening , when the far-away hills and fields were scarfed in gauzy purples , and the intervales were brimming with golden mists , Eric carried to the old orchard a little limp , worn volume that held a love story . It was the first thing of the kind he had ever read to her , for in the first novel he had lent her the love interest had been very slight and subordinate . This was a beautiful , passionate idyl exquisitely told . He read it to her , lying in the grass at her feet ; she listened with her hands clasped over her knee and her eyes cast down . It was not a long story ; and when he had finished it he shut the book and looked up at her questioningly . `` Do you like it , Kilmeny ? '' he asked . Very slowly she took her slate and wrote , `` Yes , I like it . But it hurt me , too . I did not know that a person could like anything that hurt her . I do not know why it hurt me . I felt as if I had lost something that I never had . That was a very silly feeling , was it not ? But I did not understand the book very well , you see . It is about love and I do not know anything about love . Mother told me once that love is a curse , and that I must pray that it would never enter into my life . She said it very earnestly , and so I believed her . But your book teaches that it is a blessing .
It says that it is the most splendid and wonderful thing XXXXX life .
at in into like of once over so that with