thinking that our moralists and historians exaggerate hugely the
unhappiness of the past days, in which such splendid works of
imagination and intellect were produced."

Clara listened to him with restless eyes, as if she were excited and
pleased; Dick knitted his brow and looked still more uncomfortable,
but said nothing. Indeed, the old man gradually, as he warmed to his
subject, dropped his sneering manner, and both spoke and looked very
seriously. But the girl broke out before I could deliver myself of
the answer I was framing:

"Books, books! always books, grandfather! When will you understand
that after all it is the world we live in which interests us; the
world of which we are a part, and which we can never love too much?
Look!" she said, throwing open the casement wider and showing us the
white light sparkling between the black shadows of the moonlit
garden, through which ran a little shiver of the summer night-wind,
"look! these are our books in these days!--and these," she said,
stepping lightly up to the two lovers and laying a hand on each of
their shoulders; "and the guest there, with his over-sea knowledge
and experience;--yes, and even you, grandfather" (a smile ran over
her face as she spoke), "with all your grumbling and wishing yourself
back again in the good old days,--in which, as far as I can make out,
a harmless and lazy old man like you would either have pretty nearly
starved, or have had to pay soldiers and people to take the folk's
victuals and clothes and houses away from them by force. Yes, these
are our books; and if we want more, can we not find work to do in the
beautiful buildings that we raise up all over the country (and I know
there was nothing like them in past times), wherein a man can put
forth whatever is in him, and make his hands set forth his mind and