Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure Island," and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights," and "Grimm's Fairy Tales." There were more, many more, and David devoured them all with eager eyes.

The good in them he absorbed as he absorbed the sunshine; the evil he cast aside unconsciously--it rolled off, indeed, like the proverbial water from the duck's back.
David hardly knew sometimes which he liked the better, his imaginative adventures between the covers of his books or his real adventures in his daily strolls.

True, it was not his mountain home--this place in which he found himself; neither was there anywhere his Silver Lake with its far, far-reaching sky above.

More deplorable yet, nowhere was there the dear father he loved so well.

But the sun still set in rose and gold, and the sky, though small, still carried the snowy sails of its cloud-boats; while as to his father--his father had told him not to grieve, and David was trying very hard to obey.
With his violin for company David started out each day, unless he elected to stay indoors with his books.