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 282 THE LIBRARY OF FATE.

resolution into individuals. Say as he might, and as he did, he found it impossible to select one face or form from the densest group, and make of it a distinct impression upon his brain , each seemed to melt into each, to change and disappear, and yet return with increasing motion , so that Braithe found himself at last seriously questioning whether he was surrounded by a vast multitude of persons, or whether he was quite alone, nay deprived even of the company of his own senses and his own identity.

From this speculation he was roused by the vague voice of the librarian, who was saying, as he walked down one of the long arcades at his side,

"Of course, being here, you wish to see your volume ?"

"Yes," answered the young man, mechanically.

"But do you know how uncommon a privilege this is which you enjoy ? Had not you been born at precisely midnight of midsummer-eve, it would have been impossible, and now it is only once in seven of your birth nights, and then but for an hour, that you enjoy the privilege."

"But all these?" asked Braithe, pointing at the throng about him, which, as before, seemed to melt away the moment he closely inspected it. His conductor glanced carelessly in the direction of his gesture, and replied,

"Ah, yes! these to be sure. But where are their bodies, you know?"

"Why, are they not in their bodies?"

"Of course not. These are all souls, which, having left the bodies to which they belong fast asleep, have sped hither to take a peep into their respective volumes. Tomorrow, when they and their bodies awaken, there will remain within the souls some memories, perhaps, so vivid as to be called dreams, perhaps so vague as to vanish the instant the coarser perceptions attempt to lay hold upon them, but, at any rate, all that the poor souls succeed in carrying away of all that they learn here. Were you never yourself conscious, on first waking, of some such reminiscence? An impression of something highly important and valuable which you have known while you were asleep, and which eludes your waking consciousness?"

"Yes, I have had such experiences," replied Braithe, eagerly.

"Well, it was because your soul had been here while you slept. But tonight you are here in the body, and, as I say, it is a rare privilege. "

"Is no one else here in the same way tonight?"

'Not one."

"And you?" asked Braithe, hesitatingly.

"I-I am myself the embodiment of fate. As you see me now I have always existed, and shall always exist until"

Until when?"

"How can I tell? Fate itself has limits, and I know not mine. "

The voice of the librarian seemed to die away with the last words, not so much as if he had ceased to speak, as if he could speak no more, and Braithe, turning suddenly toward him, was hardly surprised at seeing nothing, but almost before he was conscious of the fact, the same weird voice spoke at his other side. Here is your volume-do you see it?"

He pointed as he spoke to a volume, upon whose back Romuald Braithe read his own name. He extended his hand eagerly, but was checked by the librarian.

"Have a care," said he. " Do not strain the cords."

" The cords!" echoed the young man, pausing with his hand upon the book.

"Yes. Take it down; in fact, no one but yourself has the power to touch it at all, but handle it carefully."

Braithe did as he was ordered, and carefully drawing the volume from its place, he perceived that several fine cords proceeding from between its pages, connected it more or less nearly with other volumes in the same compartment, and that, although these cords were elastic and strong, a rough motion upon his part might sever them.

"Whose volumes are these to which I am thus bound?" asked he, turning to the librarian.

"Those persons with whom fate has connected you from the moment of your birth."

"But the ties can be broken. "

"Yes, and fate would reunite them. But the knots and weak places thus caused would give you and the others infinite trouble when you arrived at them. "

"Here is one of silk and gold. To whom does this unite me?" asked the young man, curiously examining the cords which he held in his hand.

"Open to the page it marks and read. But your hour is nearly gone; you have need to hasten."

Braithe opened precipitately. The page was covered with close, crabbed characters in some unknown language, as incomprehensible to him as if it had been the ancient Copt, or the primitive Sanscrit. Bitterly disappointed, he turned to the librarian, who, with a shadowy smile, replied to his unspoken appeal.