"A hero, eh! Come, that's modest and laudable. But what kind of a hero, pray?" "Like--like Jack Sheppard." "Jack Sheppard, umph! Why so?" said the doctor, rather surprised at this example and selection. "Oh he was such a smart, brave fellow! They couldn't keep him in prison," replied Mark, wagging his head in admiration. "But didn't he drive his poor mother crazy by his conduct, or something of that sort?" inquired the doctor. "That wasn't brave or smart, I take it, but rather mean and contemptible for a hero, wasn't it?" "Yes, that was mean and bad," echoed Mark, reflectively; "I think I'd rather be a Crusader." "Better, much better. But where did you hear of Jack Sheppard?" "Jerry Cook lent me the book, and I am reading it." "Fond of reading, Mark?" "Yes, sir." "Well, tell me what you have read." "I've read 'The Three Spaniards,' and 'Rinaldo Rinaldini,' 'Illustrious Highwaymen,' 'Three-fingered Jack,' and--" "I see--I see. Now, my boy, as you are fond of reading, I'll lend you a book to read that's worth all the books that were ever written, except, perhaps, the plays of Shakespeare. It is called 'The Adventures of the Ingenious Knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha.' Now, after you have read it, I'll lend you the plays of William Shakespeare, and after you have read those, you will have read the very best product of human intellect in the way of fiction. I do not expect that you will understand those books fully; it may take you all your life to do that, but if you can get but an idea of their contents, or rather, acquire but a taste for them, it will be sufficient for the present." Mark thanked the doctor, and trudged away, delighted, with the Don Quixote under his arm. This was the beginning of an intimacy, and close friendship between the two. As he had promised, Dr. Wattletop took the boy, with his brother's consent, to New York, and consulted the best chirurgical authority on his case; but, as the doctor had feared, without being able to obtain any encouragement as to the possibility of relieving him from the imperfection in his gait. Mark, for a time, was greatly disappointed at this result; but finally this feeling wore away, and grateful for all the kindness shown to him by the doctor, became attached to him, and was never more happy than when able to reciprocate with some slight service. The doctor's slender stock of literature was soon devoured by the boy, but as the books were choice, they bore re-reading and study. They consisted chiefly of poetry and a few standard novels. Histories there were none, the doctor in regard to these being of Walpole's opinion, "Lies, my boy, lies, mere records of men's prejudices and self-glorification. Sound, wholesome truth is found in a good poem or noble novel."