"Ah! I take you now, brother,--books again! So you think that, when a man breaks his heart, or loses his fortune, or his daughter--(Blanche, child, come here)--that you have only to clap a plaster of print on the sore place, and all is well. I wish you would find me such a cure." "Will you try it?" "If it is not Greek," said my uncle. CHAPTER XLIII. MY FATHER'S CROTCHET ON THE HYGEIENIC CHEMISTRY OF BOOKS. "If," said my father--and here his hand was deep in his waistcoat--"if we accept the authority of Diodorus, as to the inscription on the great Egyptian library--and I don't see why Diodorus should not be as near the mark as any one else?" added my father interrogatively, turning round. My mother thought herself the person addressed, and nodded her gracious assent to the authority of Diodorus. His opinion thus fortified, my father continued,--"If, I say, we accept the authority of Diodorus, the inscription on the Egyptian library was--'The Medicine of the Mind.' Now, that phrase has become notoriously trite and hackneyed, and people repeat vaguely that books are the medicine of the mind. Yes; but to apply the medicine is the thing!" "So you have told us at least twice before, brother," quoth the Captain, bluffly. "And what Diodorus has to do with it, I know no more than the man of the moon." "I shall never get on at this rate," said my father, in a tone between reproach and entreaty. "Be good children, Roland and Blanche both," said my mother, stopping from her work, and holding up her needle threateningly--and indeed inflicting a slight puncture upon the Captain's shoulder.