"'Strordinary!" Percival agreed in his interested way; and Mr. Amber was caused to laugh and to forget the stirring in his mind of recollections buried there twenty years down. Twenty years is deep water. It was to be more disturbed, causing much frowning, much "funny feeling," before ever it should clear and show the old librarian, looking into the pool of his own mind over Percival's shoulder, Percival's reflection cast up from the depths. The tour finished in the library. "Now this is the library!" announced Mr. Amber at the threshold, much as St. Peter, coming with a new spirit to the last gate, might say: "Now this is Paradise." "Now this is the library. This is my room. Now, we'll just wipe our feet once again--sideways, too--that's right. And I think our fingers are still a little sticky, eh? that's better--_there_!" "'Normous!" breathed Percival. "Simply 'normous, to me, you know." No dust sheets here, everything mellow with the deep sheen of age carefully attended. Tier upon tier of books, every hue of binding--dark red to brown, brown to deep blue, deep blue to white--and all, however worn, however aged, exquisitely responsive to Mr. Amber's soft chamois leather. Mr. Amber waved a proud hand at them. "I expect you'll live a long time before you see another collection like this, Master Percival. And I know every one of them--every single one just like you know your toys. In the pitch dark--in the pitch dark, mind you--I could put my hand on any one I wanted without touching another. What do you think of that, eh?" Percival has no better thought for it than the old one. "'Normous!" he declares. "Simply 'normous to me, you know, Mr. Amber!" "And the care I take of them!" Mr. Amber continues, as pleased with his audience as if Percival were the librarians of the House of Lords, the Bodleian and the British Museum rolled into one. "You wouldn't find enough dust on those books, _anywhere_, to cover the head of a pin!" He points to the highest and furthest shelves: "You'd think there might be dust right up there, wouldn't you? Well, you just choose one of those books--any one, anywhere you like." "To keep for my own?" "Keep! Bless my soul, no! Keep! Dear me! dear me! No, just point to a book." "That one!" says Percival, stretching an arm. "That one in the corner!" Mr. Amber accepts the challenge with a triumphant rubbing together of his hands. "That brown one, eh? Very well. That's a rare volume--Black Letter--Latimer's 'Fruitfull Sermons'--London, 1584. Now, you see." He trots excitedly to a high, wheeled ladder, runs it beneath the "Fruitfull Sermons," climbs up shakily, fetches down the volume and presents it for Percival's inspection: "There! Run your finger over the top of it; that's where dust collects. Ah, not that finger; got a cleaner one? That'll do. Now!"