“To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the volume,” assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. “Take anything you wish.” “Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that I may take my choice?” “You were speaking of”—hemmed Mr. Whitely. “Saadi.” “Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is.” When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, opened it, and then laughed. “You have the best protection against borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, but it is beyond me.” “As you read Latin, you can read Gentius’ translation of the Bostan,” I suggested, taking the book down. “How do you know that I can read Latin?” you asked. I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, “Miss Walton’s reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin is taken for granted.” Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, “Perhaps you will care less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:— ‘Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool! Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.’” “You only make me the more eager,” you said, running over the pages. “The book is worth reading,” vouched Mr. Whitely. “How good that is!” you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. “Very,” answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father’s handwriting on the margin of the page. “Mr. Whitely,” you asked huskily, “how did you get this book?” Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely replied, “I bought it in Germany.” You closed the volume, remarking, “I do not think I will ask the loan, after all. He seems an author one ought to own.” “I hoped you would add an association to the book,” urged Mr. Whitely. “Thank you,” you parried gravely, “but so old a volume can hardly be lacking in association. I think we must be going.” I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me the fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I was scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings had that scrap of writing stirred in you? I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and wondered if I allowed a mere scruple—a cobweb that a stronger man would have brushed aside without a second thought—to wreck my life. If I had taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps—