There is not a single handsome book in my library that papa himself has not given me; he, who is always inveighing against love of books. Handsome, I mean here, more with regard to exterior than to interior. But happy for me that there are handsome editions of books with irresistible illustrations. Happy for me that you have lived and sketched, Gustave Doré! To you I owe the pearl of my collection; to you is it due that my beloved father has grown almost into a bookworm--as much a bookworm, that is, as I can be called a bluestocking. The noble knight of La Mancha it was that conquered him. At first it was the illustrations which captivated him, and on their account I acquired the book. The unimportant text, though not even English, was, as it were, thrown in with the purchase. What a surprise it was to me! I had thanked him profusely for a picture book, and what a treasure had come into my possession! I could not keep my rapture in it for myself, and day by day as I read, I told the story to my father, and day by day his interest in Dulcinea’s knight grew warmer. “What has the donkey been doing to-day?” he would ask, and for a while I suffered it to be “the donkey.” Not for long, though. Soon I laughed no longer; rather melted with sympathy, burned with admiration. I grew to love the man ever deceived, but ever believing; the knight so often worsted, but never vanquished; and declared to my father that I desired no better fortune than to meet with such a Don Quixote in real life, and become his wife. Then papa began to think I was getting too excited over it, and it would be well to change the course of my studies. And from that time he took to overlooking my reading, and got to do what he had never done before--to read. And it would have been impossible to see anything more beautiful than the expression of devotion and absorption in his noble Wallenstein-like countenance, in every fold of the fine brow, when thus engaged. Sometimes he heaves a deep sigh, and twists one side of his mustache so furiously that the point is all awry, his eyes get fixed, the eyelids red with the unwonted application. Then I can stand it no longer; I jump up, go to him, and giving him a light kiss on the shoulder, so light that he can pretend he does not perceive it, say: “Shall we go for a walk, papa? I am quite stiff with sitting.” “Upon my word, so am I,” he says, and it does me good to see how he straightens himself and draws in a free breath. But he does not immediately carry out my suggestion; the book-marker must first be deliberately placed in the page. “So far”; he takes the perused pages between the palms of his hands. “Will it be too little for you?” And I, unthinking, ungrateful as I can be, have so often thoughtlessly made reply, “Oh, much too little; why, it is hardly anything. You must let me read on further, papa.”