“That’s more’n I know, except to spoil my clothes with acids and things,” said Val. “Anyhow, if you can amuse yourself in the library I’m glad of it. Go ahead.” It seemed to Bar Vernon that afternoon, as he wandered vaguely from one treasure of printing to another, as if he were soaking in learning from those elegantly bound volumes. The very leather on their backs had something wise and instructive in the smell of it. So it seemed, indeed; nor was Bar’s notion so far wrong as it might be thought. A man is always a good deal influenced by his companions, especially if he takes a personal interest in them. The companionship of books is only less powerful than that of human beings, just as their “study” is. As for the reverse of the proposition, if anybody doubts that human beings--boys, especially--“make an impression” on books, just let him lend them his own favorite volumes, and he will be speedily convinced. Dr. Manning was by no means displeased that evening when he heard from Val a faithful account of the day’s doings. Val had nothing to conceal, and he would never have dreamed of doing so, if he had, for he was his father’s own son in straightforward simplicity. The dinner-hour was six o’clock, and after that there were visitors, and the doctor’s back-parlor, opening into the library, looked remarkably cheerful. It was a warm evening, and the whole suite of rooms was thrown into one by opening the folding-doors, but the front part was only half-lighted. Bar felt more than a little shy at first, but a strong feeling of gratitude was rapidly growing upon him. What would he not do to keep such friends as these? Very kind they were, too; and so were their visitors, all except the big, burly, pretentious-seeming personage, who was planting himself on the piano-stool in such a lordly way, just as Val whispered to his father: “Mayn’t Bar play a trick on Professor Sturm?” “Trick? No, my son, nothing rude. How could you ask?” “Not rude, father, only funny. Bar’s a ventriloquist.” “Oh!” said the doctor, “I see; Bar, you must be careful.” Now it happened that “Professor Sturm” had already stirred up Bar’s sense of “personal resistance,” by his previous superciliousness to both him and Val, and he was quite ready to act upon the doctor’s halfway consent. The professor had evidently proposed to himself that he would electrify the little company by what he would do with that piano, and he now made a dignified and self-confident dash at the keyboard, after the usual manner of experts. This would have been succeeded promptly by another artistic effort if it had not been followed instantly by a smothered and mournful howl from the depths of the piano. The professor’s hands, on which more than one huge ring was glittering, came down with a convulsive start, and the discord produced was acknowledged by a repeated and more bitter cry of pain.