e sails, and made them gleam like angels' wings.
Then ship and sails had settled into a lustrous invisibility; a long
wave had broken with a hollow sound upon the shore, and a feeling of
tender sadness had come into the little boy's heart.

Although he was alone, however, he was not lonely; there was a great
deal to amuse him. The cottage, which was made out of the hull of an
old fishing boat, was as pleasant a place to live in as a boy could
wish. It was divided into two rooms, in one of which Oscar slept, and
in the other he ate his dinner. The furniture was very simple--a bed,
a chair or two, a table, and a bookshelf; but these were all that
Oscar required; and besides, he spent most of his time outdoors. There
were two other things in the dining-room, however, for which he cared
very much. One was a large book, which lay on the bookshelf. It was a
gift which his father had left for him when he went away. It was a
large heavy book, with a dark binding and a golden clasp. This clasp
could be opened only by pronouncing over it certain words which
Oscar's father had bade the boy's mother teach him when he should be
old enough. These words were a secret, and if the secret were
betrayed, certain penalties would follow. It was Oscar's habit, on
getting up every morning, to take the book from the bookshelf, and
having spoken the magic words, to open it and read. Now, the pages of
the book appeared like ordinary printed pages, and if anyone besides
Oscar had looked into them, they would have read only a number of
stories which were not very interesting, and which did not seem to be
of any especial importance to anybody. But with Oscar it was very
different; for, as the morning sunshine fell upon the page, he saw,
not the printed words, but wonderful pictures, which lived and moved,
and had many strange and beautiful meanings. The pictures were
something like the world in which the boy lived, but much brighter
and more glorious, and the people who moved in them were far nobler
and handsomer than any that Oscar could have imagined; and chief among
them was a grand figure which the boy recognised as his father. While
going over the pages of this mysterious book, therefore, Oscar, in his
lonely cottage, was able to see with his own eyes all the mighty deeds
that his father had done, and even many of those that he was at that
moment doing; for the book was a living book, and though it told of
marvels in comparison with which all