of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once,
recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and
strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading
steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed
the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne!
he would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly
seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a
hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and
writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes, he had written other
books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the
morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back
to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had
entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice
saying:-

"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."

The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was
thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of
her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of
quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world
upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and
played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and
responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work
establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden," was what
he had thrilled to--he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or
just "Martin," all his life. And "_Mister_!" It was certainly going
some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant,
into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness
endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps and