Again, I should never forbid anyone to read any book whatever--a prohibition makes people anxious at once; but the fact that the library books must be kept in the library would deter the children from reading what they ought not, and we would forbid certain literature because of its binding, not because of the contents; this I have found act much better than the wholesale orders we were given on the subject, in consequence of which I had read all Defoe’s, Richardson’s, Fielding’s, and other works I should never have seen before I was sixteen, and wondered why on earth they were forbidden me. I should never have read one of them had I not wanted to see why I must not; they did me no harm, because I could not understand them; they might have done infinite harm to any other girl who was less babyish for her age than I happened in some mysterious manner to be, and therefore it is a good thing to keep such books where children do not come and where they are forbidden to touch books which are too well bound to be risked in their all-too-generally grimy little paws. As in all the other rooms in the house, cheerfulness should be first thought of: a gloomy library, a library where the windows are obscured, is a mistake; cheerfulness is the first thing to be seriously cultivated by us all, in all relations of life, for it is indeed true, as the poet says-- A merry heart goes all the way, A sad one tires in a mile-a; therefore, in choosing and furnishing the library, remember this axiom, and let sunshine and brightness and cheerfulness be found there, as in every other room and place in the house; for we are insensibly and immensely influenced by our surroundings, and we should always make the best of our lives and belongings in every way we possibly can. CHAPTER V. SHALL WE DO AWAY WITH THE NURSERY? It is a hard moment in the life of any woman when she has to make up her mind that she cannot any longer consistently retain one of the best rooms in the house for the nursery, more especially if she has been able to realise her ambition, and to give to her children an ideal chamber, where beauty and suitable arrangements for their comfort have been duly studied. I know nothing sadder than an empty nursery. The children, who were as much our own as anything on this earth can ever be, have ceased to be children. They are still ours, but they are independent creatures; our care is no longer absolutely necessary to them. Some may even have married, and others may be trying their wings by some short flights from the home that will always be theirs, even if they do not care to return to it. But, in any case, they are no longer the dear little mites whose tiny ailments kept us awake at night, whose clothes and education were our unceasing care, and who found their heaven in our presence, believing honestly and thankfully that all they had came from us, and that we were without a flaw, as omnipotent as we were faultless.