Here again silence reigned for some time in the cosy parlour. It was broken by Mr. Peach. "You said, my dear sir, that you were reminded of those days this morning." "Yes," answered the chaplain. "I never could pass an open book-stall without scrutinizing the wares. It has always been one of my habits. If I were in a hurry, I should make a circuit through the side streets, instead of proceeding direct along Holborn, so irresistible is the temptation. Well, this morning I was wending my way by that great thoroughfare, and duly pausing at each successive treasure-house, when at one of them I detected an old friend. With trembling fingers, I drew the volume from between an 'Entick's Dictionary' and a 'Peregrine Pickle,' and opened it. 'By Polydore Riches.' A kind of mist came over me as I read." "Indeed," said Mr. Peach, "it was an interesting meeting. You found yourself, as one may say, face to face with your youth." "Exactly so. It was like shaking hands with the Riches of twenty-two. Well, the whim seized me to purchase the book, and also to ascertain the lowest value put upon it. So I went into the shop, and inquired the price. The owner ran the leaves backwards and forwards through his fingers, looked at the outside, and--but I need not trouble you with our bargaining. I bought it." "Ah," exclaimed Cornelius, "might I beg leave to become acquainted with it?" "You shall see the little book, if you wish, my dear sir," answered Polydore. "But listen. I do not now quite concur in the judgment of the public. I look at my offspring with parental partiality, and am fond to believe it was hardly used. And, besides, I hug the memory of my publishing days. I revel in the recollection of that one enthusiasm. And I have it all to myself. My book is forgotten. No one knows it now but myself. Would you desire to read it, my dear sir?" Cornelius never repeated his wish. But, some time afterwards, when he had a day of leisure, he repaired to the Reading-room of the British Museum, and took down the volume of the Catalogue containing the letter R. His conscience pricked him as he did so, and if any one had then touched his elbow, or twitched his coat, he would have blushed like poor Mercy Page at Madron Well. Glancing furtively from side to side, he turned over the leaves to the page he wanted, and drew his finger down the column of names. But there was no Riches rejoicing in the Christian name of Polydore. Mr. Peach closed the tome with a feeling of relief, saying to himself,--"So, my excellent friend's book did not even find its way into this great repository. Well, I am glad I have not trespassed upon his secret."