“Oh, ever so much older. Guess again.” “Eighteen, then?” “I'll be nineteen in January--January third--just one month from to-day.” “Mercy! You're very venerable, to be sure. And then, having graduated from the Normal College, what an immense deal of wisdom you must possess, too!” She laughed as gayly as though he had perpetrated a rare witticism; and then said, “No, seriously, I never learned much at the Normal College--I mean in the classes--except a lot of mathematics and Latin, which I've forgotten all about now. I learned a little from the other girls, though. Some of them were wonderfully intelligent and cultivated; and they put me on the track of good books and such things. Shall we start home now?” (They rose and began to retrace their steps.) “Tell me, Mr. Bacharach, what is the one book which you like best of all?” “That's rather a hard question. Suppose I were to put it to you, could you answer it?” “Oh, yes. I think 'Adam Bede' is the greatest book that was ever written.” “That's saying a vast deal, isn't it?” “Well, of course, I mean the greatest book of its kind--the most vivid and truthful picture of real deep feeling. I wasn't thinking of scientific books, or essays, or histories, like Spencer, or Emerson, or Macaulay. I mean, it pierces-deeper into the heart, than any other book that I have read.” “Have you ever read 'Wilhelm Meister?'” “No. I was going to, though. One of the girls lent me a copy---Carlyle's translation. She said it was splendid. But when my father saw it he made me give it back. He holds very old-fashioned ideas of literature, you know; and he says that Goethe is demoralizing. His taste in music is old-fashioned, too. He never _will_ take me to hear good music. It bores him dreadfully. He likes to go to grand sacred concerts on Sunday evening, where they play Strauss and Offenbach, and then at the end 'Home, Sweet Home.' Strauss and Offenbach and even 'Home, Sweet Home' are very well of their kind; but one tires of them after a while, don't you think so? I haven't been at a Symphony or Philharmonic for more than a year.” “Why don't you go to the rehearsals?” “Why, he won't take me to the rehearsals, any more than to the concerts.” “But you can go to them alone. They're in the afternoon.” “Oh, but I can't bear to hear music alone. I I must have somebody with me, or else I don't enjoy it at all. I always want somebody to nudge, when the music is especially thrilling; don't you?” “Yes, one longs for a sympathetic neighbor,” Elias admitted; and thought in his own soul, “I wish the old man would deputize me; it must be exceedingly pleasant to be nudged by her little elbow.”