The new librarian entered upon her duties bright and early Monday morning. She closed with a quick snap the little wicket-gate that separated the books from the outer vestibule, briskly arranged her paste-tube, her dated stamp, and her box of slips, and summoned her young assistant sharply. The assistant was reading Molly Bawn and eating caramels, and she shut book and bag quickly, wiping her mouth as she hurried to her superior.  
"Now, Miss Mather, I expect to get fifty books properly labelled and shelved before noon," said the new librarian, "and there must be no time wasted. If anyone wants me, I shall be in Section K," and she turned to go.
 
Section K was only a few feet from the registering-table, but it pleased the new librarian to assume the existence of long corridors of volumes,[160] with dumb-waiters and gongs and bustling, basket-laden attendants. So much majesty did she throw into her sentence, indeed, that the young assistant, who had always, under the old régime, privately referred to Section K as "those old religious books," and advised the few persons interested in them to "go right in behind and see if the book you refer to is there," was staggered for a moment, and involuntarily glanced behind her, to see if there had been a recent addition to the building.
 
The new librarian strode down between the cases, glancing quickly from side to side to detect mislaid or hastily shoved-in volumes. Suddenly she stopped.
 
"What are you doing in here, little boy?" she said abruptly.
 
In the angle of the case marked "Books of Travel, Adventure, etc.," seated upon a pile of encyclop?dias, with his head leaning against Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, was a small boy. He was dark of eyes and hair, palely sallow, ten or eleven years old, to appearance. By his side leaned a crutch, and a clumsy wooden[161] boot, built up several inches from the sole, explained the need of this. A heavy, much-worn book was spread across his little knees.
 
He looked up vaguely, hardly seeming to see the librarian.
 
"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" she repeated.
 
"I'm reading," he replied, not offering to rise, "I just came in."
 
"But this isn't the place to read. You must go in the reading-room," she admonished him.
 
"I always read here. I'd rather," he said, pleasantly enough, dropping his eyes to his book, as if the matter were closed.
 
Now the new librarian thoroughly disapproved of the ancient custom that penned the books away from all handling, and fully intended to throw them open to the public in a few months' time, when she should have them properly systematised; but she resented this anticipation of what she intended for a much-appreciated future privilege.
 
"But why should you read in here, when none of the other children can?" she demanded.
 
[162] The boy raised his eyes again.
 
"Mr. Littlejohn lets me—I always do," he repeated.
 
The new librarian pressed her lips together with an air of highly creditable restraint.
 
"Mr. Littlejohn allowed a great many irregularities which have been stopped," she announced, "and as there is no reason why you should do what the other children cannot, you will have to go. So hurry up, for I'm very busy this morning."
 
She did not speak unkindly, but there was an unmistakable decision in her tone, and the boy got up awkwardly, tucked his crutch under his arm, and laying the big book down with care, went out in silence, his heavy boot echoing unevenly on the hardwood floor. The librarian went on to Section K.
 
Presently the young assistant, who had been accustomed to keep her crocheted lace-work on the Philosophical shelf, directly behind the Critique of Pure Reason, recollected that it would in all human probability be discovered, on the removal of that epoch-making treatise, and came hastily down[163] to get it. Having concealed it safely in her pocket, she paused.
 
"That was Jimmy Reese you sent out—did you know it?" she asked.
 
"No, what of it?"
 
"Why, nothing, only he's always read in here ever since I came. Mr. Littlejohn was very fond of him. He helped pick out some of the books. He——"
 
"Picked out the books—that child? Great heavens!"
 
"Well, he's read a good deal, Jimmy has," the assistant contended. "It's all he does. He can't play like the other children, he's so lame. He seems real old, anyhow. And he's always been here. He helps giving out the books, and helps the children pick out. He was very convenient when Mr. Littlejohn didn't like to be waked up."
 
"Great heavens!" the librarian cried again.
 
"I think you'll find he'll be missed, you being so new," the assistant persevered.
 
"I think I can manage to carry on the library, Miss Mather," replied her superior coldly, "with[164]out any assistance from the children of the town. Will you begin on that Fiction, please?"
 
She walked on again, but paused to put away the brown book, which lay where the intruder had left it, a mute witness to the untidiness of the laity. Opening it briskly, she glanced at the title:
 
The
AGE OF FABLE
 
or
 
Beauties of Mythology
 
by
 
Thomas Bulfinch
 
Below was a verse of poetry in very fine print; she read it mechanically.
 
O, ye delicious fables! where the wave
And woods were peopled, and the air, with things
So lovely! why, ah! why has science grave
Scattered afar your sweet imaginings?
Barry Cornwall.
It flashed into her mind that an absolutely shameless subscriber had retained Miss Proctor's collected poems for three weeks now, and she made a hasty note of the fact on a small pad that hung from her belt. Then she set the Age of Fable[165] in its place and went on about her work, the incident dismissed.
 
The next afternoon as she was sorting out from the department labelled, "Poetry, Miscellaneous Matter, etc.," such books as Mr. Littlejohn had found himself unable or unwilling to classify further, shaking down much dust on the further side of the shelves in the process, she was startled by a faint sneeze. Her assistant was compiling a list of fines at the desk, and this sneeze came from her very elbow, it seemed, so she hastily dismounted from her little ladder and peered around the rack. There sat the little boy of yesterday, the same brown book spread across his knees. She looked severe.
 
"Is this Jimmy Reese?" she inquired stiffly.
 
"Yes'm," he answered, with a polite smile. He had an air of absolute unconsciousness of any offence.
 
"Well, don't you remember what I told you yesterday, Jimmy? This is not the reading-room. Why don't you go there?"
 
"I like it better here."
 
[166]
 
The librarian sighed despairingly.
 
"Perhaps you don't know who I am," she explained, not crossly, but with that air of detachment and finality that many people assume in talking with children. "I am Miss Watkins, the new librarian, and when I give an order here it must be obeyed. When I tell any one to do anything, I expect them to do it, because—because they must," she concluded lamely, a little disconcerted by the placid stare of the brown eyes. "You see, if all the little boys came in here, there would be no room for us to work."
 
"But they don't—nobody comes but me," he reminded her.
 
"Suppose," she demanded, "that someone should call for that book you are reading. I shouldn't know where to look for it."
 
"Nobody ever wants it but me," he assured her again.
 
"I have no time to argue," she said irritably, "you must do as I tell you. Put the book up and run away."
 
Without another word he laid the book on the[167] broad base-shelf, picked up his crutch, and went out. As she watched his retreating figure, a little uneasy feeling troubled her usual calm. He seemed so small, so harmless a person.
 
A little later it occurred to her to see how he had entered the library, and stepping through the two smaller rooms at the back, choked and dusty with neglected piles of old magazines, she noticed a door ajar. Picking her way through the chaos, she pulled the knob, and saw that it gave on a tiny back porch. On the steps sat the janitor, as incompetent, from the librarian's point of view, as his late employer.
 
"I thought you were sweeping off the walks, Thomas," she suggested, coughing as the wreaths from his pipe reached her.
 
"Well, yes, Miss Watkins, so I was. I just stopped a minute to rest, you see," he explained, eyeing her distrustfully. Since her advent life had changed greatly for the janitor.
 
"I see Thomas, does that little lame boy come in this way?"
 
[168]
 
"Jimmy? Yes, ma'am. 'Most always he does. In fact, that's why I keep the door unlocked."
 
"Well, after this I prefer that you should keep it locked. There is no reason why he should have a private entrance to the library that I can see; and anyway it's not safe. Some one might——"
 
"Oh, Lord, Miss Watkins, don't you worry. Nobody ever came in here yet, and I've been here eight years. Jimmy's all right. He's careful and still's a mouse, and he won't do a mite of harm. He comes in regular after school's out, and it's just like a home to him, you may say. He's all right."
 
Miss Watkins frowned.
 
"I have no doubt that he is a very estimable little boy," she said; "but you will please see that no one enters the library by this door. I see no reason for favouritism. You understand me, I hope."
 
And she returned to her work. The assistant, weary of her unprecedented labour, had laid aside the list of fines, and was openly crocheting. No sound of broom or lawn-mower proclaimed Thomas[169] worthy of his hire, and Miss Watkins, vexed beyond the necessity of the case, labelled Fiction angrily, wondering why such a town as this needed a library, anyway.
 
Two little old ladies, plump and deprecatory, entered in a swish of fresh, cambric morning-dresses. One of them fumbled in her black-silk bag for a book, and leaning on the little gate, coughed lightly to attract the assistant's attention.
 
"Yes, indeed, Miss Mather, a lovely day. Sister and I enjoyed this very much. I don't know about what we'll take, exactly; it's so hard to tell. I always look and look, and the more I look the more anxious I get. It always seems as if everything was going to be too long, or else we've read it. You see we read a good deal. I wonder—do you know where the little boy is?"
 
Miss Mather smiled triumphantly. "You'll have to ask Miss Watkins," she said.
 
"The new librarian, my dear? Oh, I hardly like to disturb her. They say she's very strict. My cousin told me she charged her nine cents for a[170] book that was out too long. You ask her, my dear!"
 
"Miss Watkins," said the assistant meekly, "there is a lady here would like to see Jimmy. Do you know where he is?"
 
"I do not," the librarian returned briefly. "Anything I can do——"
 
"Oh, no, not at all!" cried the flushed old lady, "not for the world! Don't disturb yourself, please—Miss—Miss—I'll just wait till he gets in. He picked this out for me. You see, he knows pretty well what we want. I always like something with a little travel in it, and sister won't hear of a book unless it ends well. And it spoils it so to look ahead. So the little fellow looks at the end, and sees if it's all right for sister, and then he assures me as to the travel—I like European travel best—and then we know it's all right. I'll just wait for him."
 
"I have no reason to suppose that he will be here," Miss Watkins said crossly.
 
"Oh, yes, he'll be here," the old lady returned comfortably. "He'll be here soon. We can wait."
 
[171]
 
The librarian pressed her lips together and retired into her work. The minutes passed. Presently the outer door opened softly, and the irregular tap of a crutch was heard. Jimmy's head peered around the partition into the ante-room. The old ladies uttered a chirp of delight, and slipped out into the hall for a brief, whispered consultation, returning with a modest request for "Griffith Gaunt, by Charles Reade." The elder of the two shut it carefully into her bag, remarking sociably, "I wanted to read the Cloister and the Hearth, by the same author, I'd heard there was so much travel in it, but he said sister never could bear the ending."
 
Going into the reading-room later, on some errand, the librarian was surprised to find the magazines neatly laid out in piles, the chairs straightened, the shades pulled level, and a fresh bunch of lilacs in the jar under the window. She guessed who had done it, but Jimmy was not to be seen. Once, during the next afternoon, she thought she saw a small, grey jacket disappearing into the waste-room, but much to her own[172] surprise, forbore to make certain of it. During the next few days, when her time was entirely taken up with the catalogue in the front of the library, and the assistant transacted all business among the shelves, she was perfectly convinced that somewhere between sections A and K a little boy with a brown book was concealed, but found herself too busy to rout him out.
 
Even when a red-faced, liveried coachman presented her with a note, directed in a sprawling, childish hand to "Mr. Jimmy Reese, Esq.," she only coughed and said severely, "There is no such official in the library."
 
"It's just the little boy, ma'am, that's meant," the man explained deferentially. "Master Clarence is back for the summer—Mrs. Clarence Vanderhoof, ma'am—and he always sends a note to the little fellow. There was some book he mentioned to him last year as likely that he would enjoy, and Master Clarence wants it, if it's in. I was to give him the note."
 
"I will send a list of our juveniles to Mrs. Vanderhoof," said the librarian, in her most busi[173]ness-like manner, "and I will give you, for Master Clarence, the new Henty book. He will probably like that."
 
"I beg pardon, ma'am," persisted the coachman, "but Master Clarence says that there was a book that the little boy particularly recommended to him, and I was to be very special about it. He goes a good deal by the little fellow's judgment. I'll call in again when he's here, after my other errands."
 
Miss Watkins sighed, ............