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 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, "without 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_ in its place and went on about her work, the incident dismissed.