edge that had somehow filtered into our small brains that this matter we were especially and particularly expected to know nothing of. It could not have been so many years after Emerson had written that if there were anything a teacher wished to conceal from his pupils, that thing they were particularly sure to be aware of.
It must have been from memories such as these that a vague sensation as of some long past sweetness, like the odor of dried rose leaves, came stealing over me the other day when I found myself alone in the house. Being in a whimsical humor, I yielded to the sensation, and went downstairs seeking wherewith to celebrate so unusual and unique an opportunity.
I first glanced in at the parlor. To pound on the piano with both pedals down was nothing now. The "what-not," with its treasure-laden shelves, had long ago retired to the attic, and the rosewood writing-case had, in the fullness of time, come into my own possession, containing nothing more thrilling than ancient accounts and old receipted bills.
I stepped to the library door and glanced at the row of books, some inviting, some accus-
