"Yes; what a difference it makes, doesn't it? Oh, I say, mother, here 's one of your late favorites!"
"What is it?"
"Memoirs of Doctor Barnardo."
"I must read them again."
"Who was Doctor Barnardo?" I asked; I was curious.
"If you don't know of him and his London work, then you have a treat before you in this book." Mrs. Macleod spoke with unusual enthusiasm.
"And he was Ewart's friend too. I might have known I should find this among his books. It always seems to me as if it were 'books and the man'. Show me what books are a man's familiars, and I 'll tell you his characteristics."
"No, really, can you do that?" I asked, surprised at this dictum from such youthful lips.
"Yes, in a general way I can. Look at this for instance." He held out a volume. "The man who has this book for an inner possession, and also on his shelves, is a thinker, broad-minded, scholarly, human to an intense degree—"
"What is it?" I said, impatient to see.