ts.
Should you want to have poetry?"

"Yes; I suppose some edition of the English poets."

"We don't any of us like poetry. Do you like it?"

"I'm afraid I don't very much," Corey owned. "But, of course, there
was a time when Tennyson was a great deal more to me than he is now."

"We had something about him at school too. I think I remember the
name. I think we ought to have ALL the American poets."

"Well, not all. Five or six of the best: you want Longfellow and
Bryant and Whittier and Holmes and Emerson and Lowell."

The girl listened attentively, as if making mental note of the names.

"And Shakespeare," she added. "Don't you like Shakespeare's plays?"

"Oh yes, very much."

"I used to be perfectly crazy about his plays. Don't you think
'Hamlet' is splendid? We had ever so much about Shakespeare. Weren't
you perfectly astonished when you found out how many other plays of his
there were? I always thought there was nothing but 'Hamlet' and 'Romeo
and Juliet' and 'Macbeth' and 'Richard III.' and 'King Lear,' and that
one that Robeson and Crane have--oh yes! 'Comedy of Errors.'"

"Those are the ones they usually play," said Corey.

"I presume we shall have to have Scott's works," said Irene, returning
to the question of books.

"Oh yes."

"One of the girls used to think he was GREAT. She was always talking
about Scott." Irene made a pretty little amiably contemptuous mouth.
"He isn't American, though?" she suggested.

"No," said Corey; "he's Scotch, I believe."

Irene passed her glove over her forehead. "I always get him mixed up
with Cooper. Well, papa has got to get them. If we have a library, we
have got to have books in it. Pen says it's perfectly ridiculous
having one. But papa thinks whatever the architect says is right. He
fought him hard enough at first. I don't see how any one can keep the
poets and the historians and novelists separate in their mind. Of
course papa will buy them if we say so. But I don't see how I'm ever
going to tell him which ones." The joyous light faded out of her face
and left it pensive.

"Why, if you like," said the young man, taking out his pencil, "I'll
put down the names we've been talking about."

He clapped himself on his breast pockets to detect some lurking scrap
of paper.

"Will you?" she cried delightedly. "Here! take one of my cards," and
she pulled out her card-case. "The carpenter writes on a three-cornered
block and puts it into his