"But we—are people," avers Alicia, "and we are—yours." I own to a slight thrill at this sweet investiture, implicit in her words, but I seem obtuse to it. "But so is a great book a person," I sententiously inform her, "and ’Oxford, 1621’, means a first edition, Alicia—not merely a person but a personage. That book is as proud an aristocrat as though it were plastered with coronets and simply throbbing with Norman blood. There is a whole heraldry about it—it is a prince among books. And all, Alicia, because it aroused men’s interest and has given them delight from about the time the Pilgrims first landed at Plymouth. It’s a book that could take Doctor Johnson out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to rise. Also, if the worst came to the worst, it could feed us for a time, and that is very important, isn’t it, Alicia?" "Yes," she breathes in awe which for some reason delights me. "What a wonderful thing it must be to write a great book." And she fingers the next volume with even greater reverence. "The ’Life of Edward Malone’, by Sir James Prior," reads Alicia. "Is that a prince among books, too?" "No," I answer. "That is just a friend. Malone, you see, was crossed in love in the days of Doctor Johnson, and by way of consolation became a book-collector and a Shakesperian commentator. They say the Irish are fickle. But here is one who could never love again. So whenever I read his life, I think I see through a sort of mist the lovely lady whom he lost and all about him is curiously dear to me. He wouldn’t feed us for very long, Alicia, but he has given me many hours of pleasure." "Are book-collectors people—crossed in love?" she inquires with gentle subtlety, and I am surprised that one of her youthfulness should be arrested by that particular point. "If you mean me," I answer quietly, "then I can tell you that I wasn’t. No one ever loved me enough to cross me. I am a collector by a sort of—spontaneous degeneration." Alicia throws her fine young head back and peals with delicious laughter. Afterwards I catch her smiling to herself as she copies down the titles. I am amazed to note how lovely that child has become since she has been here. Her thin, frightened expression has given way to one of happy confidence. All too soon she will be enriching some young man’s life with happiness. Her interest in my musty old books has given her a value of companionship in my eyes that I trust I shall not exaggerate at the expense of my niece and nephews—though Alicia is hardly one to take advantage of such a situation. Nevertheless, I must be on my guard. After all, though she is the chartered, custodian of the others, and _quis custodiet ipsos_—who shall watch over Alicia? Obviously, it is my task to improve her mind in order to make her the better guardian for them. And Alicia’s mind is improving apace. "Uncle Ranny," she inquired the other day, "may I ask what that first edition of Boswell’s ’Johnson’, cost you?"