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." 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 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?" "Jimmy? Yes, ma'am. 'Most always he does. In fact, that's why I keep the door unlocked."