conferring. Sometimes, in
mid-morning, Teddy came gingerly in with Aunt Lydia.

"You're talking out loud, Moth'!"

"Because there's nobody else here, darling!"

Martie would catch the child to her heart with a joyous laugh. She was
expanding like a flower in sunlight. Her work interested her, she liked
to pick books for boys and girls, old women and children. She liked
moving about in a businesslike way--not a casual caller, but a part of
the institution. She had long, whispered conversations, at the desk,
with Dr. Ben, with the various old friends. Sometimes Sally brought the
baby in, and Martie sat Mary on the desk, and talked with one arm about
the soft little body.

Her duties were simple. She mastered them, to Miss Fanny's amazement,
on the very first day, and in a week she felt herself happily at home.

All Monroe passed before her desk, and every one stopped for a
whispered chat. Martie came to like the wet days, when the rain slashed
down, and the boys, reading at the long table, rubbed wet shoes
together. There was a warmth and brightness and openness about the
Library entirely different from the warmest home. And she took a deep
interest in the members, advised them as to books, and held good books
for them. She studied human nature under her green hanging-lamp; her
eager eyes and brain were never satisfied. Not the least advantage to
her new work was that she could carry home the new books.

Where the happiness that began to flood her heart and soul came from
had its source she could not tell. Like all happiness, it was made of
little things; elements that had always been in Monroe, but that she
had not seen before. She was splendidly well, as Teddy was, and their
laughter made the days bright in the old house. Also she was lovely to
look upon, and she must have been blind not to know it. Her tall, erect
figure looked its best in plain black; Martie would never be fat again;
her skin was like an apple blossom, white touched deeply with rose, her
eyes, with their tender sadness and veiled mirth, were more blue than
ever. Monroe came to know her buoyant step, her glittering, unconquered
hair, her voice that had in it tones unfamiliar and charming. She
scattered her gay and friendly interest everywhere; the women said that
she had something, not quite style, better than style, an "air."

One summer day Lydia saw her absorbed in the closely written sheets of
a long letter from New York.

"It's from Mr. D