n't the faintest trace of
a foreign accent in her speech. If anything, there was a hint of
Irish,--the soft intonation of the Emerald Isle. Her colouring, too, was
Irish, the blue-black hair, the dark violet eyes--he had discovered that
they were violet; looking, for all the world, as if they had been put in
with a smutty finger, as the saying goes. He revolved the problem in his
mind, and a moment later came upon the solution, so he told himself. An
Irish mother, and an Italian father, so he decreed, metaphorically
patting himself on the back the while for his perspicacity.

The problem settled, he turned himself to the contents of the book as set
forth by the author thereof, rather than the three words inscribed on the
fly-leaf by the owner. They were not hard of digestion. The print was
large, the matter light. Anon he came to Mutabile Semper and the death
letters, and, having read them, and laughed in concord with the erstwhile
laugh of the book's owner, he closed the pages, and gazed out upon the
sunshine and the water.

CHAPTER V

A FRIENDSHIP

Emerson has written a discourse on friendship. It is beautifully worded,
truly; it is full of a noble and high-minded philosophy. Doubtless it
will appeal quite distinctly to those souls who, although yet on this
earth-plane, have already partly cast off the mantle of flesh, and have
found their paths to lie in the realm of spirit. Even to those, and it is
by far the greater majority, who yet walk humdrumly along the world's
great highway, the kingdom of the spirit perceived by them as in a glass
darkly rather than by actual light shed upon them from its realm, it may
bring some consolation during the absence of a friend. But for the
general run of mankind it is set on too lofty a level. It lacks the
warmth for which they crave, the personality and intercourse.

"I do then, with my friends as I do with my books," he says. "I would
have them where I can find them, but I seldom use them."

Now, it is very certain that, for the majority of human beings, the
friendliest books are worn with much handling. If we picture for a moment
the bookshelves belonging to our childish days, we shall at once mentally
discover our old favourites. They have been used so often. They have been
worn in our service. No matter how well we know the contents, we turn to
them again and again; there is a very joy in knowing what to expect. Time
does not age nor custom stale the infinite v