seemed a good sign.  It looked as though the boy’s mind addressed itself naturally to holy things.  But in a day or two he asked for more books.  Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome.  Philip took it greedily.  The pictures led him to a new amusement.  He began to read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.

Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant.  His heart beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his imagination.  It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns.  It was a Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been seen again.  And Philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some strange mansion.

One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane’s translation of The Thousand Nights and a Night.  He was captured first by the illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again and again.  He could think of nothing else.  He forgot the life about him.  He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.  Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading:  he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment.  Presently he began to read other things.  His brain was precocious.  His uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble themselves about him.  Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one time and another because they were cheap.  Haphazard among the sermons and homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last discovered.  He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then many more.  Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.