"Indeed, they couldn't be," he added, with a smile.
Fortunately he was but nineteen as yet; would he venture on a like comparison were he twenty-five?
Yes, his little room was to be dismantled on the morrow,--this first little private chapel of his spirit.

This fair order of shelves, this external harmony answering to an inner harmony of his spirit, were to be broken up for ever.

Often as he had sat in the folioed lamplit nook which was, as it were, the very chancel of the little church, and gazed in an ecstasy at the books, each with a great shining name of fame upon its cover, it had seemed as though he had put his very soul outside him, externalised it in this little corner of books and pictures.

His soul shivered, as one who must go houseless awhile, at the thought that to-morrow its home would be no more.

When and how would be its reincarnation?
More magnificent, maybe, but never this again.