of
famine, and be wise.

"You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to
one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do
I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy
lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine,
leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an
atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with
the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms."

He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it
to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own
image.

"Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the
union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the
sunbeams,--thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of
these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition.

"A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his
natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good."

"How so? These are all select works,--golden sheaves of knowledge,
gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand."

"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more
than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason
why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity
of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."

"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in
sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with
enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by
the hand of God, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the
shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories
reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright."

"Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever
thus read?"

I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,--it was so
rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the
passing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that _deep, under
chord_, which breathes in low, passionate strains, life's tender and
pathetic mirror.

"I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen
of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the
earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's
vari