"The matter is important. Sooner or later I shall have to think about
a collected edition. Is it to be included?"

Mrs. Best, like A. E., offered to lend me her copy, but I could not
bring myself to accept it, and escaped from the book till I came to
live in London. Then Fate thrust it into my hands, the means employed
being a woman to whom I had written for "Impressions and Opinions."
She had lost her copy; there was, however, an old book of mine which
she had never heard me speak of--"Spring Days"--and which, etc., she
was sending me the book.

"Omens are omens," I muttered, "and there's no use kicking against the
pricks eternally;" and cutting the string of the parcel I sat down to
read a novel which I had kept so resolutely out of my mind for twenty-
five years, that all I remembered of its story and characters was an
old gentleman who lived in a suburb, and whose daughters were a great
source of trouble to him. I met the style of the narrative as I might
that of an original writer whose works I was unacquainted with. There
was a zest in it, and I read on and on; I must have read for nearly
two hours, which is a long read for me, laying the book aside from
time to time, so that I might reflect at my ease on the tenacity with
which it had clung to existence. Every effort had been made to drown
it; again and again it had been flung into the river, literally and
metaphorically, but it had managed to swim ashore like a cat. It would
seem that some books have nine hundred and ninety and nine lives, and
God knows how long my meditation might have lasted if the front door
bell had not rung.

"Are you at home, sir, to Mr.--?"