ing. Upon the top shelf had always been kept, in those early days, the volumes most forbidden and most desired. We rarely attained them because among the diverse attractions a houseful of forbidden joys offered, those most easily accessible in limited time, naturally invited first attention. Still I remember sundry dips into a small red volume, "News from the Invisible World," which I knew to be specially prohibited, and the accompanying spinal chills, with something of the old-time relish. But what do the top shelves offer me now? Butler's "Analogy," Paley's "Evidences," Eliza Cook's poems, placed there by the master's own hand when he finally went over the shelves last spring after my repeated threats of the second-hand man!
At the dining-room door I meditated. The nuts and raisins in the closet beyond, offered no temptation; I had put them there myself. The jam, newly opened—had I not declined the same at breakfast? True, there were the Japanese chimes in the back hall, a recent acquisition. I had often felt sure I could make a more cheerful and musical rendering than Catherine does when she summons us to dine,
