“What an accumulation of ways and means you have about you!” I said; “and all, apparently, to different ends.”

“All to the same end, if my object were understood.”

“I presume I must ask no questions as to that object?”

“It would take time to explain.  I have theories of education.  I think a man has to educate himself into harmony.  Therefore he must open every possible window by which the influences of the All may come in upon him.  I do not think any man complete without a perfect development of his mechanical faculties, for instance, and I encourage them to develop themselves into such windows.”

“I do not object to your theory, provided you do not put it forward as a perfect scheme of human life.  If you did, I should have some questions to ask you about it, lest I should misunderstand you.”

He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied smile.  There was nothing offensive in it, but it left me without anything to reply to.  No embarrassment followed, however, for a rustling motion in the room the same instant attracted my attention, and I saw, to my surprise, and I must confess, a little to my confusion, Miss Oldcastle.  She was seated in a corner, reading from a quarto lying upon her knees.

“Oh! you didn’t know my niece was here?  To tell the truth, I forgot her when I brought you up, else I would have introduced you.”

“That is not necessary, uncle,” said Miss Oldcastle, closing her book.

I was by her instantly.  She slipped the quarto from her knee, and took my offered hand.

“Are you fond of old books?” I said, not having anything better to say.

“Some old books,” she answered.

“May I ask what book you were reading?”

“I will answer you—­under protest,” she said, with a smile.

“I withdraw the question at once,” I returned.

“I will answer it notwithstanding.  It is a volume of Jacob Behmen.”

“Do you understand him?”

“Yes.  Don’t you?”

“Well, I have made but little attempt,” I answered.  “Indeed, it was only as I passed through London last that I bought his works; and I am sorry to find that one of the plates is missing from my copy.”

“Which plate is it?  It is not very easy, I understand, to procure a perfect copy.  One of my uncle’s copies has no two volumes bound alike.  Each must have belonged to a different set.”

“I can’t tell you what the plate is.  But there are only three of those very curious unfolding ones in my third volume, and there should be four.”

“I do not think so.  Indeed, I am sure you are wrong.”

“I am glad to hear it—­though to be glad that the world does not possess what I thought I only was deprived of, is selfishness, cover it over as one may with the fiction of a perfect copy.”

“I don’t know,” she returned, without any response to what I said.  “I should always like things perfect myself.”