ad the Bible at six years old. The only persons
who were reputed to possess learning of any sort were the Squire, the
Rector, two local preachers, and myself. And now, suddenly, there had
descended among us a scholar who positively read Dante for pleasure!

I continued the talk. "You will not think me rude if I ask why you
should choose that book."

"I am afraid I must be more confidential than is seemly if I answer your
question. Promise not to think me a babbler, and I will tell you. Dante
is the poet for failures. I happen to be a failure, and as my life is
broken I go to him for consolation."

This was a new vision of life to me, for generally our village talk was
of crops, and the Squire's latest eccentricities.

When we had gossiped for a while about poetry and books in general, and
when I had found that my acquaintance was far my superior in every
possible respect, I prepared to move. He stopped me by saying "May I
ask you, in turn, what book you are carrying?"

"I read Keats. He is my Sunday luxury. I do not read him on the
week-days for fear I should get him by heart, and every Sunday I start
as though I were dipping into a new book."

"Ah! then you still care for beauty. I used to feel positive physical
luxury years agone while I read Keats, but now it seems as if the
thought of beauty came between me and the grave. I am, like all the
failures, a student of deformity. Strong men love beauty, futile men
care only for ugliness. I am one of the futile sort, and so I care most
for terror and darkness. Come inside, and perhaps I shall not talk quite
so madly then."

The mastiff civilly let us pass, and I went into the low room of the
cottage. One side was entirely taken up with books, and amongst the
books were five editions of Dante. The fire blazed on the clean hearth,
and everything looked neat and well-kept. A narrow trestle bed stood in
the corner, and a table and chair completed the furniture of the room.

I said, "You will find it horrible here when the winter comes on. The
wind comes down from Chibburn Hollow, and when I was a boy I used to
like to sit on the leeward side of the hills only to hear it scream."

"The wind will serve me for company."

I began to doubt my companion's sanity a little, and I said, "I am
afraid talking has disturbed you. I must say good-bye."

I did not read that day, and the strange face with its bitter mouth and
keen eyes was in my memory for a week after. I set myse