There was a library in the old house, filled with such books as lead to thought, suggesting grand ideas to the imagination, and strengthening the reason. An intellect of no ordinary cultivation must have selected these volumes, for they were in various languages, and each work was of the choice productions of its nation. Catharine remarked that none of these volumes had been printed within the last thirty years, though up to that period the literature of many nations was gathered. This fact gave her food for thought, and with a curiosity unnatural to her, she began to conjecture for what purpose and by whom this rare collection had been made. Why had it been discontinued so suddenly, and how chanced it that a library of so much value in all respects had been left untouched, till the dust of years almost obscured the original richness of the bindings? Another thing aroused conjecture also. The library was on the ground-floor, occupying the extreme end of one wing of the building, to which a large bay-window had been added, filling the room with pure light and enlarging it at the same time. When Catharine first entered the room, about a week after her arrival on the Island, it was buried in darkness, for long wooden shutters were closed over the windows; and though it was early daylight, when the fresh, young morning was full of brightness, she was almost repulsed by the dusty and dim atmosphere. But she had received permission to visit every part of the house, and use anything it contained at discretion, for the comfort of herself and her companion. With considerable effort she forced open the sashes and flung back the shutters from the dusty panes. The morning sunshine came up through the valley in its first golden brightness, and drifting through the pendent branches of a weeping-elm that sheltered the whole wing, poured itself in a flood through the window, till dust floated like a cloud of golden motes all around. It seemed to her almost like sacrilege, thus to have let in a broad light on the obscurity of so many years. The bookcases of dark wood, richly carved and set with plate-glass, took the sudden radiance gloomily, and glimpses of the gilded bindings came dimly through the accumulated dust. The bronze medallions that formed centre-pieces over each case were scarcely discernible, and the crimson hangings upon the wall behind, though embossed with a deep velvet pattern, seemed faded to a brown tint. The two sides of the room were occupied by these bookcases; but on each side the door, which opened opposite the bay-window, several pictures were hung, veiled with cobwebs, and their costly frames gleaming out from wreaths of dust.