"Why, when I sees people with handsome blank books like that I allus supposes that's their object."
Blank-book indeed! And yet, perhaps, he was not wrong. I did not question it, but handed him the Bragdon Hamlet.
"Read that page aloud to me," I said, indicating the title-page and turning my back upon him, almost dreading to hear him speak.
"Certainly, if you wish it; but aren't you feeling well this morning, Mr.
Marsden?"
"Very," I replied, shortly. "Go on and read."
"Hamlet, Prince of Denmark," he read, in a halting sort of fashion.
"Yes, yes; and what else?" I cried, impatiently.
"A Tragedy by William Shak—"
That was enough for me. I understood Tom, and at last I understood myself. I grasped the book from the janitor's hands, rather roughly, I fear, and bade him begone.
The happiest period of my life has elapsed since then. I understand that some of my friends profess to believe me queer; but I do not care. I am content.