“I knew him,” he answered with a curious smile, “but he did not care about my acquaintance, and we never met.--That gentleman, however,” he added, pointing to the portrait,--“old Sir Up’ard, his people called him,--was in his day a friend of mine yet more intimate than ever your grandfather became.” Then at length I began to think the interview a strange one. But in truth it was hardly stranger that my visitor should remember Sir Upward, than that he should have been my great-grandfather’s librarian! “I owe him much,” he continued; “for, although I had read many more books than he, yet, through the special direction of his studies, he was able to inform me of a certain relation of modes which I should never have discovered of myself, and could hardly have learned from any one else.” “Would you mind telling me all about that?” I said. “By no means--as much at least as I am able: there are not such things as wilful secrets,” he answered--and went on. “That closet held his library--a hundred manuscripts or so, for printing was not then invented. One morning I sat there, working at a catalogue of them, when he looked in at the door, and said, ‘Come.’ I laid down my pen and followed him--across the great hall, down a steep rough descent, and along an underground passage to a tower he had lately built, consisting of a stair and a room at the top of it. The door of this room had a tremendous lock, which he undid with the smallest key I ever saw. I had scarcely crossed the threshold after him, when, to my eyes, he began to dwindle, and grew less and less. All at once my vision seemed to come right, and I saw that he was moving swiftly away from me. In a minute more he was the merest speck in the distance, with the tops of blue mountains beyond him, clear against a sky of paler blue. I recognised the country, for I had gone there and come again many a time, although I had never known this way to it. “Many years after, when the tower had long disappeared, I taught one of his descendants what Sir Upward had taught me; and now and then to this day I use your house when I want to go the nearest way home. I must indeed--without your leave, for which I ask your pardon--have by this time well established a right of way through it--not from front to back, but from bottom to top!” “You would have me then understand, Mr. Raven,” I said, “that you go through my house into another world, heedless of disparting space?” “That I go through it is an incontrovertible acknowledgement of space,” returned the old librarian. “Please do not quibble, Mr. Raven,” I rejoined. “Please to take my question as you know I mean it.” “There is in your house a door, one step through which carries me into a world very much another than this.” “A better?” “Not throughout; but so much another that most of its physical, and many of its mental laws are different from those of this world. As for moral laws, they must everywhere be fundamentally the same.”