"Do you know any thing about this book?" he asked, holding up a small volume elegantly gilded and ornamented, which he took from his pocket.
"No sir, I never saw it before," replied Emily. So far as words went, she spoke truth, for she had never seen the book at all. "What is it?"
"It is a book I should be very sorry to see in the hands of any young lady in this school," replied Mr. Fletcher, holding out the volume as if it had been a cock-roach, or something worse. "It is a French novel, of the very worst class. I cannot conceive who should have brought such a thing here."
"Is there no name in it?" asked Emily, trembling at her own boldness in putting the question.
"None whatever, but quite a tender inscription, as though it had been presented to some one. Grip found it under one of the currant bushes, and brought it to me in his mouth. I only hope it won't poison him."
"Mr. Hugo often walks in the garden, between the classes," Emily ventured to suggest. "Perhaps it belongs to him!"
"Perhaps so!" said Mr. Fletcher, putting the offending volume in his pocket again. "If so, I must give him a hint not to sow such poisonous weeds in our grounds."
He detained her a moment with some remarks as to the propriety of carefulness in reading, and then went into the house, followed by Cornelius Agrippa, who certainly showed no signs of being poisoned.
With a light heart, Emily returned to her room, where she found Delia standing by the window, apparently absorbed looking out.
"Good news, Delia!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "The book is found, but no harm is done. Grip discovered it, and carried it to his master, but there is no name in it, and Mr. Fletcher has not the least suspicion, except that he thinks it may belong to Mr. Hugo. So don't let us trouble ourselves any more about that."