But the gilded edges, reflecting the light a second time, flung it on a nest of drawers in a dark corner, and I saw that one of them was half open. “More meddling!” I cried, and went to close the drawer. It contained old papers, and seemed more than full, for it would not close. Taking the topmost one out, I perceived that it was in my father’s writing and of some length. The words on which first my eyes fell, at once made me eager to learn what it contained. I carried it to the library, sat down in one of the western windows, and read what follows. CHAPTER VIII. MY FATHER’S MANUSCRIPT I am filled with awe of what I have to write. The sun is shining golden above me; the sea lies blue beneath his gaze; the same world sends its growing things up to the sun, and its flying things into the air which I have breathed from my infancy; but I know the outspread splendour a passing show, and that at any moment it may, like the drop-scene of a stage, be lifted to reveal more wonderful things. Shortly after my father’s death, I was seated one morning in the library. I had been, somewhat listlessly, regarding the portrait that hangs among the books, which I knew only as that of a distant ancestor, and wishing I could learn something of its original. Then I had taken a book from the shelves and begun to read. Glancing up from it, I saw coming toward me--not between me and the door, but between me and the portrait--a thin pale man in rusty black. He looked sharp and eager, and had a notable nose, at once reminding me of a certain jug my sisters used to call Mr. Crow. “Finding myself in your vicinity, Mr. Vane, I have given myself the pleasure of calling,” he said, in a peculiar but not disagreeable voice. “Your honoured grandfather treated me--I may say it without presumption--as a friend, having known me from childhood as his father’s librarian.” It did not strike me at the time how old the man must be. “May I ask where you live now, Mr. Crow?” I said. He smiled an amused smile. “You nearly hit my name,” he rejoined, “which shows the family insight. You have seen me before, but only once, and could not then have heard it!” “Where was that?” “In this very room. You were quite a child, however!” I could not be sure that I remembered him, but for a moment I fancied I did, and I begged him to set me right as to his name. “There is such a thing as remembering without recognising the memory in it,” he remarked. “For my name--which you have near enough--it used to be Raven.” I had heard the name, for marvellous tales had brought it me. “It is very kind of you to come and see me,” I said. “Will you not sit down?” He seated himself at once. “You knew my father, then, I presume?”