sympathy, and am disposed to be
indulgent ere I have perused a single line. There are cases, however,
in which I incline to luxury of binding. Just as I had rather have my
historians in old calf and my chroniclers in black letter, so do I
delight to see my modern poets, the Benjamins of my affections, clothed
in coats of many colors. For them no moroccos are too rich, and no
"toolings" too elaborate. I love to see them smiling on me from the
shelves of my book-cases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through a
painted oriel.

Standing here, then, to-day, dipping first into this work and
then into that, I light upon a very curious and interesting
edition of _Froissart_--an edition full of quaint engravings, and
printed in the obsolete spelling of two hundred years ago. The
book is both a treasure and a bargain, being marked up at five
and twenty francs. Only those who haunt book-stalls and
luxuriate in old editions can appreciate the satisfaction with
which I survey

"That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid,
Those ample clasps of solid metal made,
The close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age,
The dull red edging of the well-filled page,
And the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll'd,
Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!"

They only can sympathize in the eagerness with which I snatch up the
precious volume, the haste with which I count out the five and twenty
francs, the delight with which I see the dealer's hand close on the sum,
and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine! Then how
lovingly I embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my position
as a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, still
courting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turns
its back upon its worshipper!

"Pray, Monsieur," says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old
_Froissart_ that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?"

"Just sold, Madame," replies the bookseller, promptly.

"Oh, how unfortunate!--and I only went home for the money" exclaims the
lady in a tone of real disappointment.

Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glance
at my defeated rival, and recognise--Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.

She does not see me. I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, and
she is already turning away. I follow her at a little distance; keep her
in sight all the way home; let her go into the house s