name of the owner, she saw written on the fly-leaf in a bold and
beautiful hand, "S. E. M., Boboli Gardens, Florence. Lasciate ogni
speranza voi ch' entrate."

"What does this mean, grandpa?"

She held up the book and pointed out the words of the dread
inscription.

"Indeed, Pearl, how should I know? It is Greek, or Latin, or Dutch,
like the other outlandish gibberish he talked to that devilish
horse. He must have spent his life among the heathens, to judge from
his talk; for he has neither manner nor religion. Honey, better put
the book there in the furnace; it is not fit for your eyes."

"He may come back for it if he misses it pretty soon."

"Not he. One might almost believe that he was running from the law.
He would not turn back for it if it was bound in gold instead of
leather. It is no account, I'll warrant, or he would not have been
reading it, the ill-mannered heathen!"

Weeks passed, and as the owner was not heard of again, Edna felt
that she might justly claim as her own this most marvellous of
books, which, though beyond her comprehension, furnished a source of
endless wonder and delight. The copy was Gary's translation, with
illustrations designed by Flaxman; and many of the grand, gloomy
passages were underlined by pencil and annotated in the unknown
tongue, which so completely baffled her curiosity. Night and day she
pored over this new treasure; sometimes dreaming of the hideous