“No, sir, I did not see much of his face, he never looked at me but once.  I should not like to meet him again; I am afraid of him.”

“Never fear, Pearl, he is a stranger here, and there’s little chance of your ever setting your eyes on his ugly, savage face again.  Keep the money, dear; I won’t have it after all the airs he put on.  If, instead of shoeing his wild brute, I had knocked the fellow down for his insolence in cursing me, it would have served him right.  Politeness is a cheap thing; and a poor man, if he behaves himself, and does his work well, is as much entitled to it as the President.”

“I will give the dollar to grandma, to buy a new coffee-pot; for she said to-day the old one was burnt out, and she could not use it any longer.  But what is that yonder on the grass?  That man left something after all.”

She picked up from the spot where he had thrown his shawl a handsome morocco-bound pocket copy of Dante, and opening it to discover the 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 faces that scowled at her from the solemn, mournful pages; and anon, when startled from sleep by these awful visions, she would soothe herself to rest by murmuring the metrical version of the Lord’s Prayer contained in the “Purgatory.”  Most emphatically did Mrs. Hunt disapprove of the studious and contemplative habits of the ambitious child, who she averred was indulging dreams and aspirations far above her station in life, and well calculated to dissatisfy her with her humble, unpretending home and uninviting future.  Education, she contended,