Last Tuesday--I know it was then
because it was the evening young Gilbert was here--a man with a beard
came in asking for it, and it wasn't on the shelf. Then the next
night, Wednesday, I was up very late writing, and fell asleep at my
desk. I must have left the front door ajar, because I was waked up by
the draught, and when I went to close the door I saw the book sticking
out a little beyond the others, in its usual place. And last night,
when the Corn Cobs were here, I went out to look up a quotation in it,
and it was gone again."

"Perhaps the assistant chef stole it?" said Titania.

"But if so, why the deuce would he advertise having done so?" asked
Roger.

"Well, if he did steal it," said Helen, "I wish him joy of it. I tried
to read it once, you talked so much about it, and I found it dreadfully
dull."

"If he did steal it," cried the bookseller, "I'm perfectly delighted.
It shows that my contention is right: people DO really care for good
books. If an assistant chef is so fond of good books that he has to
steal them, the world is safe for democracy. Usually the only books
any one wants to steal are sheer piffle, like Making Life Worth While
by Douglas Fairbanks or Mother Shipton's Book of Oracles. I don't mind
a man stealing books if he steals good ones!"

"You see the remarkable principles that govern this business," said
Helen to Titania. They sat down by the fire and took up their knitting
while the bookseller ran out to see if the volume had by any chance
returned to his shelves.

"Is it there?" said Helen, when he came back.

"No," said Roger, and picked up the advertisement again. "I wonder why
he wants it returned before midnight on Tuesday?"

"So he can read it in bed, I guess," said Helen. "Perhaps he suffers
from insomnia."

"It's a darn shame he lost it before he had a chance to read it. I'd
like to have known what he thought of it. I've got a great mind to go
up and call on him."

"Charge it off to profit and loss and forget about it," said Helen.
"How about that reading aloud?"

Roger ran his eye along his private shelves, and pulled down a
well-worn volume.

"Now that Thanksgiving is past," he said, "my mind always turns to
Christmas, and Christmas means Charles Dickens. My dear, would it bore
you if we had a go at the old Christmas Stories?"

Mrs. Mifflin held up her hands in mock dismay. "He reads them to me
every year at this time," she said to Titania. "Still,