In ways truly miraculous, I had been lent four books, marvellous books, and them I had devoured.

One was the life of Garfield; the second, Paul du Chaillu's African travels; the third, a novel by Ouida with the last forty pages missing; and the fourth, Irving's "Alhambra." This last had been lent me by a school-teacher.

I was not a forward child.

Unlike Oliver Twist, I was incapable of asking for more.

When I returned the "Alhambra" to the teacher I hoped she would lend me another book.