book, and leaving the place, thinking that he would soon come forward and tell me to do so. Of course, I was very suspicious, under those circumstances, but have often thought since that those men were not thinking of me at all, but were lost in their own business, and did not know what their eyes were doing. Another reason why I could not enjoy books then was owing to a low and insufficient diet, which kept my blood too cold to sit long in a room where the windows were often wide open. The consequence was that I often returned a very interesting book after an hour's reading, so as to take a walk and get warm; a book which would, if I had a cosy little room of my own, be read through at one sitting, though it took far into the night. And when summer came, I wanted to read in the open air, but had no friends to recommend me as a book-borrower. For that reason I could not borrow books to take away and read at my leisure, and in whatever place I liked. Since those days, and now that I have made one or two friends, I have other reasons to spoil my enjoyment of books. I cannot now read with enjoyment books that are borrowed or are likely to be wanted back. Such books are never any good to me, for, if I enjoy them, I am robbed of that joy by the thought that they are not mine. I want to see the books around me as my own property, else the sight of them grieves me. My own books are kept on a shelf, and I look on them as pure thoroughbred; but I keep apart all borrowed books, treating them as wandering mongrels to whom I have given a temporary home, and am as anxious to drive away as I was to receive them in the beginning. For this reason I would not now take advantage of a library, even if it were next door. Unfortunately, in the country a book lover has to be well off, for he can only buy new books; whereas in London, and other large cities, a man can take, from stalls of second-hand books, an armful of classics for the price of a moderate meal. And that leads me to another thought--I do not care for the look of new books, much preferring them to have lost their last coat of polish. Somehow it hurts my conscience to see a dear old author shining before me in gold and spotless green or red. I seem to hear his voice say: "You scorned my coming in years past, and left me for these late and colder days." There is not much excuse for a man living in London not having a good stock of books. I have seen Shakespeare for fourpence, and Milton for half that price. At this rate a man could in a few months have a large stock of good books, and the outlay would not be much. If I had been living in London during these last two years, my books would now run into several hundreds, and I would not have spent five pounds.