One of the best things about going to strange houses is coming upon their accompanying books. It's happened to us all, I am sure: you're in a house, there's a bookshelf, and there you find…The Butterfly Kid. Or Spa Sleuths. Or…anything you would never have read otherwise except you're there, and it's there, and somehow something happens between you.

We had a fairly glorious weekend with many cousins, much running around and pumpkins and cider donuts, and to top it all off, the most wonderful collection of books. There was an entire wall of mysteries in the parlor, and an amazing array of kids books in the room with the bunk beds.

Here is what I found on one bizarre evening:

Ten-year-old cousin reading The Time of Mark Twain, an ancient copy of a book I can't even seem to find anywhere. Engrossed.

Diana discovered her own true love, which we will have to talk more about later. Suffice it to say, LOVE:

And Chestnut? Lover of stories of girls in pinafores striving bravely to do the right thing? Of historical fiction, of orphans and dolls and fairies? Um, this:

This is one of the most excellent things about books: they let you become someone else entirely, even if only for an evening on your way to sleep.

She really liked it. And just like that, everyone's worlds got a little bit bigger.