ve me no ground to think you such."

"Only you do not believe me?"

"I will go out of that door with you if you like: I believe in you
enough to risk the attempt."

"The blunder all my children make!" he murmured. "The only door out is
the door in!"

I began to think he must be crazy. He sat silent for a moment, his head
resting on his hand, his elbow on the table, and his eyes on the books
before him.

"A book," he said louder, "is a door in, and therefore a door out.--I
see old Sir Up'ard," he went on, closing his eyes, "and my heart swells
with love to him:--what world is he in?"

"The world of your heart!" I replied; "--that is, the idea of him is
there."

"There is one world then at least on which your hall-door does not
open?"

"I grant you so much; but the things in that world are not things to
have and to hold."

"Think a little farther," he rejoined: "did anything ever become yours,
except by getting into that world?--The thought is beyond you, however,
at present!--I tell you there are more worlds, and more doors to them,
than you will think of in many years!"

He rose, left the library, crossed the hall, and went straight up to
the garret, familiar evidently with every turn. I followed, studying his
back. His hair hung down long and dark, straight and glossy. His coat
was wide and reached to his heels. His shoes seemed too large for him.

In the garret a light came through at the edges of the great roofing
slabs, and showed us parts where was no flooring, and we must step from
joist to joist: in the middle of one of these spaces rose a partition,
with a door: through it I followed Mr. Raven into a small, obscure
chamber, whose top contracted as it rose, and went slanting through the
roof.

"That is the door I spoke of," he said, pointing to an oblong mirror
that stood on the floor and leaned against the wall. I went in front
of it, and saw our figures dimly reflected in its dusty face. There
was something about it that made me uneasy. It looked old-fashioned and
neglected, but, notwithstanding its ordinary seeming, the eagle, perched
with outstretched wings on the top, appeared threatful.

"As a mirror," said the librarian, "it has grown dingy with age; but
that is no matter: its clearness depends on the light."

"Light!" I rejoined; "there is no light here!"

He did not answer me, but began to pull at a little chain on the
opposite wall. I heard a creaking: the top of the chamber was turn