“They should come before dishes. People first, I say. That’s why I’m behind with my washing. People first, I say to Jonas, and he looks scornful. But it will pay some day.” “You have not a catalogue?” “A seed catalogue? We’ve never had a call for that. I thought everybody had one.” “So we have, dozens. I meant a catalogue of the books. I would like to know what our boys and girls are reading.” “Grown people, too. Everybody reads the books. Every time Mr. Gunn is laid up he is crazy for books. Look them over; lots of them are out. No matter how you put them back, if you only pile them up.” “But you have a book in which to put down my name and the number of the book I take.” “Oh, no; take any you like. I couldn’t be bothered that way. We expect new books. The last entertainment the school children had was to raise money for books. We don’t get anything for keeping the books, but Jonas is the greatest reader that ever was; he has read them all. But I never have time. I don’t know what is in any of them.” “Your husband knows. I am glad he reads them. Our young people must be taken care of. Books have been everything to me. These books are an influence in Bensalem.” “I hope so,” replied the keeper of the books, not thinking for an instant that they could be otherwise than a good influence. “Excuse me if I go on with my work; that is the last boiler-full.” “I would not stay if I interrupted you,” said Miss Affy. “I may take considerable time, for I want to know what our boys and girls are reading. I know every book in the Sunday-school library, but I had forgotten that Bensalem boasted a public school library.” After a half-hour’s search, Miss Affy’s choice was made; the type of the book was not large enough for the old man’s reading at night, but the story was excellent: “Samuel Budget, the Successful Merchant.” “I’m sorry about the type,” she said, “but it is better than the newspapers.” “The type? Is that the name of the story?” questioned the woman at the wash-tub. “The print I should say. Thank you for letting me come. But I am sorry to leave those dishes.” “Don’t be sorry. My kitchen will be very sweet when the syringas are out. And don’t think I’m always so late with my washing. It was all his folks.” “How is Nettie these days?” “Miserable enough. She doesn’t know how to get outside of her poor little self. But then, who of us does, until we are _pulled_ out?” she asked, with cheerful philosophy, as Miss Affy went away past the syringa bushes.