And just as the child does not connect its native village with the broader world without, does not trace its streets and turnings till they lead to the great towns, does not inquire as to its origins and its history, does not view it in relation to other villages, to the country, to the continent, to the world, but loves it for itself and in itself, so Reb Shemuel regarded and reverenced and loved these gigantic pages with their serried battalions of varied type.

They were facts--absolute as the globe itself--regions of wisdom, perfect and self-sufficing.

A little obscure here and there, perhaps, and in need of amplification or explication for inferior intellects--a half-finished manuscript commentary on one of the super-commentaries, to be called "The Garden of Lilies," was lying open on Reb Shemuel's own desk--but yet the only true encyclopaedia of things terrestrial and divine.

And, indeed, they were wonderful books.

It was as difficult to say what was not in them as what was.