But it was not of her food she was thinking just now. In the man who stood there, so independent, yet so free from self-assertion, she saw a prospect of learning something. She hungered for knowledge, but, though fond of reading, was mostly ignorant of books. She thought like a poet, but had never read a real poem. She was full of imagination, but hardly could have told what the word meant. She had never in her life read a work of genuine imagination—not even Undine, not even The Ugly Duckling.

After some talk it was settled that Richard should work in the large oriel of the library. Mrs. Locke was called and the necessary orders given. Employer and workman were both anxious—the one to see, the other to make a beginning. In a few minutes Richard had located many of the books most in need of attention—enough to keep him, turning from the one to the other as each required time in the press or to dry, thoroughly busy.

“There are a few volumes here, sir,” he said midway through the morning, “that need more than I can do for them. I should like to send them to my father.”

“Why to him?”

“I am best at mending. But I’m not up to my father in binding. If he could help me with those that must be bound, I would have more time with what often takes longer. You may trust him. He does not want to make a fortune.”

“I will try him then,” answered the cautious heir. “At least I will send him the books and see what he will charge.”

“I will put the prices on them and promise that my father will charge no more,” said Richard.

Lestrange was content with the arrangement, and Richard continued his work with the other volumes.

Always busy, the bookbinder soon began to be respected in the house. After his work hours were over he would read, or write when he pleased, in the library. As his labours went on, the bookscape began gradually to revive. Dingy and broken backs disappeared. Light and colour soon began dotting the landscape of the bookshelves.

A few valuable books, much injured by time and rough usage—among the rest a quarto of The Merry Wives—he had pulled apart and was soaking in certain solutions in preparation for binding them. When Lestrange came in one morning, accompanied by the curate of the parish, his eyes fell on a loose title page of a book he happened to know.

“What on earth are you doing?” he cried. “You will destroy that book! By Jove! You little know what you’re about!”

“I do know what I’m about, sir. I shall do the book nothing but good,” answered Richard. “It could not have lasted many more years without what I am doing.”

“Leave it alone,” said Lestrange. “I must ask someone else. The treatment is too dangerous.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the treatment is by no means dangerous. After a bath in this solution, the paper will hold together much stronger. The book has suffered much from damp and insects.”