He would see at least what they were.

It would be something to do in this dreariness.
Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral--to feel the interest of which, a man must be a poet indeed--was all that met his view.

Bundle after bundle he tried, with no better success.

But as he drew near the middle of the second shelf, upon which they lay several rows deep, he saw something dark behind, hurriedly displaced the packets between, and drew forth a small workbox.

His heart beat like that of the prince in the fairy-tale, when he comes to the door of the Sleeping Beauty.