y man. I finished it in 1477, when
my sight was fast failing me."

Romola walked to the farther end of the room, with the queenly step
which was the simple action of her tall, finely-wrought frame, without
the slightest conscious adjustment of herself.

"Is it in the right place, Romola?" asked Bardo, who was perpetually
seeking the assurance that the outward fact continued to correspond with
the image which lived to the minutest detail in his mind.

"Yes, father; at the west end of the room, on the third shelf from the
bottom, behind the bust of Hadrian, above Apollonius Rhodius and
Callimachus, and below Lucan and Silius Italious."

As Romola said this, a fine ear would have detected in her clear voice
and distinct utterance, a faint suggestion of weariness struggling with
habitual patience. But as she approached her father and saw his arms
stretched out a little with nervous excitement to seize the volume, her
hazel eyes filled with pity; she hastened to lay the book on his lap,
and kneeled down by him, looking up at him as if she believed that the
love in her face must surely make its way through the dark obstruction
that shut out everything else. At that moment the doubtful
attractiveness of Romola's face, in which pride and passion seemed to be
quivering in the balance with native refinement and intelligence, was
transfigured to the most lovable womanliness by mingled pity and
affection: it was evident that the deepest fount of feeling within her
had not yet wrought its way to the less changeful features, and only
found its outlet through her eyes.

But the father, unconscious of that soft radiance, looked flushed and
agitated as his hand explored the edges and back of the large book.

"The vellum is yellowed in these thirteen years, Romola."

"Yes, father," said Romola, gently; "but your letters at the back are
dark and plain still--fine Roman letters; and the Greek character," she
continued, laying the book open on her father's knee, "is more beautiful
than that of any of your bought manuscripts."

"Assuredly, child," said Bardo, passing his finger across the page, as
if he hoped to discriminate line and margin. "What hired amanuensis can
be equal to the scribe who loves the words that grow under his hand, and
to whom an error or indistinctness in the text is more painful than a
sudden darkness or obstacle across his path? And even these mechanical
printers who threaten to make learning a base and v