He found him in the library, as he had been given to expect, coiled up on the floor in a corner, with his back against the book-shelves, and an old folio on his knees, which he was reading in silence.

“Well, Harry,” said Hugh, in a half-indifferent tone, as he threw himself on a couch, “what are you reading?”

Harry had not heard him come in.  He started, and almost shuddered; then looked up, hesitated, rose, and, as if ashamed to utter the name of the book, brought it to Hugh, opening it at the title-page as he held it out to him.  It was the old romance of Polexander.  Hugh knew nothing about it; but, glancing over some of the pages, could not help wondering that the boy should find it interesting.

“Do you like this very much?” said he.

“Well—­no.  Yes, rather.”

“I think I could find you something more interesting in the book-shelves.”

“Oh! please, sir, mayn’t I read this?” pleaded Harry, with signs of distress in his pale face.

“Oh, yes, certainly, if you wish.  But tell me why you want to read it so very much.”

“Because I have set myself to read it through.”

Hugh saw that the child was in a diseased state of mind, as well as of body.

“You should not set yourself to read anything, before you know whether it is worth reading.”

“I could not help it.  I was forced to say I would.”

“To whom?”

“To myself.  Mayn’t I read it?”

“Certainly,” was all Hugh’s answer; for he saw that he must not pursue the subject at present:  the boy was quite hypochondriacal.  His face was keen, with that clear definition of feature which suggests superior intellect.  He was, though very small for his age, well proportioned, except that his head and face were too large.  His forehead indicated thought; and Hugh could not doubt that, however uninteresting the books which he read might be, they must have afforded him subjects of mental activity.  But he could not help seeing as well, that this activity, if not altered in its direction and modified in its degree, would soon destroy itself, either by ruining his feeble constitution altogether, or, which was more to be feared, by irremediably injuring the action of the brain.  He resolved, however, to let him satisfy his conscience by reading the book; hoping, by the introduction of other objects of thought and feeling, to render it so distasteful, that he would be in little danger of yielding a similar pledge again, even should the temptation return, which Hugh hoped to prevent.

“But you have read enough for the present, have you not?” said he, rising, and approaching the book-shelves.

“Yes; I have been reading since breakfast.”

“Ah! there’s a capital book.  Have you ever read it—­Gulliver’s Travels?”

“No.  The outside looked always so uninteresting.”

“So does Polexander’s outside.”