The volume of "The Family Treasury," though five years old, was a recent
acquisition. It had come into the house through the total disappearance
of a customer who had left the loose numbers to be bound in 1869. Edwin
dropped sideways on to a chair at the table, spread out his feet to the
right, pitched his left elbow a long distance to the left, and, his head
resting on his left hand, turned over the pages with his right hand
idly. His eye caught titles such as: "The Door was Shut," "My Mother's
Voice," "The Heather Mother," "The Only Treasure," "Religion and
Business," "Hope to the End," "The Child of our Sunday School," "Satan's
Devices," and "Studies of Christian Life and Character, Hannah More."
Then he saw an article about some architecture in Rome, and he read: "In
the Sistine picture there is the struggle of a great mind to reduce
within the possibilities of art a subject that transcends it. That mind
would have shown itself to be greater, truer, at least, in its judgement
of the capabilities of art, and more reverent to have let it alone."
The seriousness of the whole magazine intimidated him into accepting
this pronouncement for a moment, though his brief studies in various
encyclopaedias had led him to believe that the Sistine Chapel (shown in
an illustration in Cazenove) was high beyond any human criticism. His
elbow slid on the surface of the table, and in recovering himself he
sent "The Family Treasury" on the floor, wrong side up, with a great
noise. Maggie did not move. Clara turned and protested sharply against
this sacrilege, and Edwin, out of mere caprice, informed her that her
precious magazine was the most stinking silly `pi' [pious] thing that
ever was. With haughty and shocked gestures she gathered up the volume
and took it out of the room.

"I say, Mag," Edwin muttered, still leaning his head on his hand, and
staring blankly at the wall.

The fire dropped a little in the grate.

"What is it?" asked Maggie, without stirring or looking up.

"Has father said anything to you about me wanting to be an architect?"
He spoke with an affectation of dreaminess.

"About you wanting to be an architect?" repeated Maggie in surprise.

"Yes," said Edwin. He knew perfectly well that his father would never
have spoken to Maggie on such a subject. But he wanted to open a
conversation.

"No fear!" said Maggie. And added in her kindest, most encouraging,
elder-sisterly tone: "Why?"

"Oh!" He h