“‘Yes, Garret,’ said the little man,: ‘I want to be your friend, and to save you from ruin like the rest of your family. You were wrong to burn that book.’ “‘But I couldn’t read it,’ said Garret; ‘what use was it to me?’ “‘It was your own life, Garret O’Moore,’ said the little man, ‘and take care that you keep the part you have there, and study it carefully. It would have been, better for you if you had kept the whole of it.’ “And with that the flame sprang brightly up for a second or two, and then went black out, so that O’Moore had to grope about to find tinder to strike a light. He lit the only bit of candle he had, and began to examine the part of the book that remained, and what did he find but on every blank page there was a line--sometimes two--written as if to explain the substance of the printed page, and all in such a way as to show it was somebody’s life, and adventures--as, for instance: ‘Takes to the sea--goes to America--joins an expedition to the Far West--on the plantations--marries--wife dies---off to China--marries again.’ I needn’t go on: everything that was ever to happen to him was written there till he was forty-five years of age, the rest was burned; but it was all fortunate--all, to the very end. He grew to be very rich, and prospered in everything, for whenever he was faint-hearted or depressed, he always said, ‘It wasn’t by being low and weak of heart that I begun this career of good fortune, and I must be stout and of high courage if I mean to go on with it.’ And he grew so rich that he bought back all the old acres of the O’Moores, and they have a hand rescuing a book from the flames on their arms till this day.” “And the moral?--where’s the moral?” asked the governess. “The moral, the moral!” said Kate, dubiously. “Well, I’m not exactly sure where it is, but I suppose it is this; that it’s far better to go to sea as a sailor than to sit down and burn your father’s library.” “I have a notion, my dear Kate, that you yourself would like well to have a peep into destiny--am I wrong?” “I would, Sir.” “And you, Ada?” “Why should _she?_” broke in Kate, eagerly; and then, as though shocked at her impetuosity, she went on, in a lower voice: “Ada makes her voyage in a three-decker, _I_ am only clinging to a plank.” “No, no, dearest,” said Ada, tenderly; “don’t say that.” “Mademoiselle is looking at her watch,” said Sir Within, “and I must accept the signal.” And though she protested, elaborately too, that it was a mere habit with her, he arose to ring for his carriage. “I am not going without the sketch you promised me, Ada,” said he--“the pencil sketch of the old fountain.” “Oh, Kate’s is infinitely better. I am ashamed to see mine after it.” “Why not let me have both?” “Yes,” said the governess, “that will be best. I’ll go and fetch them.” Ada stood for a moment irresolute, and then muttering, “Mine is really too bad,” hastened out of the room after Mademoiselle Heinzle-man.