Arrived on the New Jersey side, she was so much earlier than she usually returned, and so dispirited, that she decided to walk home, threading the way through sordid streets till she climbed the more cleanly ascent to the Heights. The Heights has a common as well as a square, and Jennie’s way took her through the great shady grassplot, where men were lounging on benches, nurses wheeling their babies, and boys playing baseball. Round the common are the civic monuments of Pemberton Heights, the bank, the post-office, the hospital, the engine house, and the public library. Jennie looked at this last as if she had never seen it before. As a matter of fact, she never had seen it before. She had looked at it more times than she could count, but with the eyes only. She knew what it was. She had actually watched the coquettish red-brick building, with its glass dome and white Grecian portico rising at the command of the great philanthropist whose name the building bore; but she had never been conscious of its purpose as related to herself. Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that here was a place where a reader could find books. With no very clear idea in mind, she stepped within. The interior was hushed, rather awesome, yet sunny and sweetly solemn like the temple of some cheerful god. Finding herself confronted by a kindly, bookish little lady seated at a table behind a wooden barrier, it was obviously Jennie’s duty to address her. "I wonder if—if I could borrow a book." She was informed that she could borrow three books at a time, as soon as certain inquiries as to her identity and residence were carried out, and this would take a few days. But in a few days, Jennie knew that her desire to read might be dead, and said so. The object of the library being to encourage young people to read rather than to be too particular about their addresses, the kindly little lady, after some consultation with a kindly little gentleman, filled out Jennie’s card. "What sort of book were you thinking of? A novel?" Jennie said, "Yes," if it was a good one. "This is one of the best," the little lady went on, pushing forward a volume that happened to be lying at her hand, "if you’d care to take it." It was _The Egoist_, by George Meredith, and Jennie accepted it as something foreordained. "You could have two more books if you wanted them—now that you’re here." Jennie made a plunge. "Have you anything about—about spires?" The lady smiled gently. "About church spires?" The girl thought it was—chapel spires—especially French ones. The kindly little gentleman, being accustomed to this kind of search, was called into counsel. In the end she selected a work on the old churches of Paris, which she thought might give her the information she desired. "And now a third book?" Here she was on safer ground. The English name had caught her ear with more precision than the foreign ones. "Have you got anything about a Lady Hamilton?"