“Poor David, that is his little shrine, and I have no right to see it,” thought Christie, shutting the door with self-reproachful haste. At the table she paused again, for books always attracted her, and here she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old friends, because she remembered them in her father’s library. Faust was full of ferns, Shakspeare, of rough sketches of the men and women whom he has made immortal. Saintly Herbert lay side by side with Saint Augustine’s confessions. Milton and Montaigne stood socially together, and Andersen’s lovely “Märchen” fluttered its pictured leaves in the middle of an open Plato; while several books in unknown tongues were half-hidden by volumes of Browning, Keats, and Coleridge. In the middle of this fine society, slender and transparent as the spirit of a shape, stood a little vase holding one half-opened rose, fresh and fragrant as if just gathered. Christie smiled as she saw it, and wondered if the dear, dead, or false woman had been fond of roses. Then her eye went to the mantel-piece, just above the table, and she laughed; for, on it stood three busts, idols evidently, but very shabby ones; for Göthe’s nose was broken, Schiller’s head cracked visibly, and the dust of ages seemed to have settled upon Linnæus in the middle. On the wall above them hung a curious old picture of a monk kneeling in a devout ecstasy, while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the radiance that floods the cell with divine light. Portraits of Mr. Power and Martin Luther stared thoughtfully at one another from either side, as if making up their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space. “Melancholy, learned, and sentimental,” said Christie to herself, as she settled David’s character after these discoveries. The sound of a bell made her hasten down, more curious than ever to see if this belief was true. “Perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. Sometimes he does not hear the bell when he is busy. Thee will find my garden-hood and shawl behind the door,” said Mrs. Sterling, presently; for punctuality was a great virtue in the old lady’s eyes. Christie demurely tied on the little pumpkin-hood, wrapped the gray shawl about her, and set out to find her “master,” as she had a fancy to call this unknown David. From the hints dropped by Mr. Power, and her late discoveries, she had made a hero for herself; a sort of melancholy Jaques; sad and pale and stern; retired from the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. She rather liked this picture; for romance dies hard in a woman, and, spite of her experiences, Christie still indulged in dreams and fancies. “It will be so interesting to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond of woe; but I do hope he won’t be too lackadaisical, for I never could abide that sort of blighted being.” Thinking thus, she peeped here and there, but saw no one in yard or barn, except a workman scraping the mould off his boots near the conservatory.