whom he feared to wake, and his eyes wandered from one familiar
object to another till they rested on the shelves where the old
vellum-bound books, which Innocent had loved and studied so much,
were ranged in orderly rows. Taking one or two of them out he
glanced at their title-pages;--he knew that most of them were rare
and curious, though his Oxford training had not impressed him with
as great a love of things literary as it might or should have
done. But he realised that these strange black-letter and
manuscript volumes were of unique value, and that their contents,
so difficult to decipher, were responsible for the formation of
Innocent's guileless and romantic spirit, colouring her outlook on
life with a glamour of rainbow brilliancy which, though beautiful,
was unreal. One quaint little book he opened had for its title--
"Ye Whole Art of Love, Setting Forth ye Noble Manner of Noble
Knights who woulde serve their Ladies Faithfullie in Death as in
Lyfe"--this bore the date of 1590. He sighed as he put it back in
its place.

"Ah, well," he said, half aloud, "these books are hers, and I'll
keep them for her--but I believe they've done her a lot of
mischief, and I don't love them! They've made her see the world as
it is not--and life as it never will be! And she has got strange
fancies into her head--fancies which she will run after like a
child chasing pretty butterflies--and when the butterflies are
caught, they die, much to the child's surprise and sorrow! My poor
little Innocent! She has gone out alone into the world, and the
world will break her heart! Oh dearest little love, come back to
me!"

He sat down in her vacant chair and covered his face with his