dren’s books.” She opened one of the tiny treasures, which was in print almost small enough to be legible only by aid of the microscope, and read on the title-page: “The Works of William Shakespeare, in 6 vols.—Vol. IV.”
I grieve to say that the child did not consult anybody about the propriety of reading these books. Only a little while before, her papa had taken away from her a delightful novel, whose heroine (her name was either Melissa or Amanda, or something of that kind) had just got into the most dangerous part of the book. Her father had said it was not a fit story for a small girl to read, and she had shed some bitter tears over her loss, had thought her papa very cruel, and mentally resolved to read the rest of the story as soon as she was grown up. Alas! like many other things we mean to do some time, the resolution never was fulfilled: and though the little girl is now a woman, she does not know to this day what became of the forlorn Amanda, or Melissa, whose fortunes she left in such desperate condition.
