“Yes; it was a very nice party, indeed,” acknowledged Prospero, stroking his long beard gravely. “I confess I never expected to get so much pleasure out of poetry. But now, to quote myself, ‘I’ll to my book.’ Good-night.” And he retired to his study. “I’m so sleepy!” said John. “Isn’t it too bad that poor Shakespeare died before they invented ice-cream?” “Yes,” said Mary, “I wish he were still alive. I should like to see him. But when I look about the library now I feel as if all the books were alive--just full of live people!” “They are alive so long as we read them,” said Mrs. Corliss. “I’m going to keep them alive!” cried Mary. “Miaou!” protested Caliban, scratching wearily at his ribbon. He at least was tired of wearing his costume. “Poor Caliban!” said Mary, untying the ribbon. “Now you can go to sleep comfortably. To-morrow I shan’t be Ariel any more. But you will still be Caliban, for you are the realest of us all!” Caliban switched his tail, yawned, and jumped up into the armchair, where he curled himself to sleep. Mary had a strange dream that night. Perhaps she had eaten too much ice-cream. She thought that as soon as the house was quiet, Caliban rose on tiptoe and put on little wings like those of Puck, and flew right out of the open window, away to the land of fairies and shadows and book-folk. She dreamed that though she hunted and hunted, she never could find him again. The dream made her cry, and she woke up very early in the morning, still sobbing. The dream was still too real! She jumped out of bed, flung on her little blue wrapper, thrust her feet into her blue slippers, and hurried downstairs into the library. There in the middle of the mantelpiece, under Aunt Nan’s portrait and close beside the bust of Shakespeare, sat Caliban. He blinked in grave surprise at her unexpected entrance. “Oh, Caliban, dear Caliban!” cried Mary, running up to him and hugging him tight. “I was afraid you had ‘vanished into thin air,’ too. I couldn’t have borne that, Caliban. I don’t know what I should ever do without you, pussy dear!” “Miaou!” said Caliban, fondly kissing her cheek. And Aunt Nan’s portrait smiled down upon the pair. THE END The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.