"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, 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 encyclopædias, 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 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. 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."