istmas presents were given a permanent place on the
shelves of the book case. All of them, however, lacked printed covers
and illustrations.

The young man whom every one spoke of as "poor dear Herr Stangenberg"
had not been dead a week, when Keith one afternoon on his return from
school found himself alone in the house with Granny. His mother had gone
to call on some friends, and the father would not come home from the
bank for several hours. Even the servant girl was away, which was a fact
that not immaterially contributed to Keith's sense of security. Granny
need not be taken into account.

A long cherished opportunity had arrived at last, and he made straight
for the book case. It was locked, but he knew where to find the key. Its
hiding-place had constituted one of those little domestic problems that
add zest to an uneventful existence. There was also an injunction of
long standing against any meddling with the case without permission, but
that had been a dead letter for some time. When books were concerned,
Keith's customary respect for authority ceased to be an obstacle to
his desires.

He explored with no special object in mind. He wanted new reading
matter, and his curiosity was piqued by a number of books with blank
backs that gave no clue to their contents. Two huge, fat volumes on
the bottom shelf had already attracted his attention, and they
were the first he pulled out. Their title brought instantaneous
disappointment--"The Philosophy of the Unconscious," by Edouard von
Hartmann. He prepared scornfully to put them back, when, through the big
gap left by their withdrawal, he became aware that the space back of the
front row was packed with smaller books and pamphlets. This discovery
surprised him for a moment, but what he saw in there looked rather
uninteresting. Nevertheless he reached in and pulled out a small green
pamphlet that happened to be nearest at hand. Idly he glanced at the
legend printed on the front cover:

"Amor and Hymen. A guide for married and unmarried persons of both
sexes."

The words carried no special meaning to his mind, and in the same
indifferent manner he turned a few pages until his eyes fell on a
full-page illustration.

After that he read no other book for days.

VII

He read as he had never read before in his brief span of life--as,
perhaps, he would never read again, no matter how wide a stretch of life
that span might ultimately encompass.

He read of the an