, two
abreast on either side, moved at a snail's pace, so dense were the
throngs at each crossing. Her fancy was busy weaving about each
throbbing tonneau and limousine a story of love. Not a wheel was turning
in all that long line of shining vehicles that didn't carry a woman or
was hurrying to do a woman's bidding.

Her hero was coming, too, somewhere in the crowd with his gloved hand on
one of those wheels. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he handed
her into the seat by his side and then the sudden leap of the car into
space and away on the wings of lightning into the future!

She ascended the broad steps of the majestic building with quick,
springing strength. She loved this glorious library, with its lofty,
arched ceilings. The sense of eternity that brooded over it and filled
the stately rooms rested and inspired her.

Besides, she forgot her poverty in this temple of all time. Within its
walls she belonged to the great aristocracy of brains and culture of
which this palace was the supreme expression. And it was hers. Andrew
Carnegie had given the millions to build it and the city of New York
granted the site on land that was worth many millions more. But it was
all built for her convenience, her comfort and inspiration. Every volume
of its vast and priceless collection was hers--hers to hold in her
hands, read and ponder and enjoy. Every officer and manager in its
inclosure was her servant--to come at her beck and call and do her
bidding. The little room on Twenty-third Street was the symbol of the
future. This magnificent building was the realization of the present.

She smiled pleasantly to the polite assistant who received her order
slip, and took her seat on the waiting line until her books were
delivered.

This magnificent room with its lofty ceilings of golden panels and
drifting clouds had always brought to her a peculiar sense of restful
power. The consciousness of its ownership had from the first been most
intimate. No man can own what he cannot appreciate. He may possess it by
legal documents, but he cannot own it unless he has eyes to see, ears
to hear, and a heart to feel its charm. This appreciation Mary Adams
possessed by inheritance from her student father who devoured books with
an insatiate hunger. Nowhere in all New York's labyrinth did she feel
as perfectly at home as in this reading-room. The quiet which reigned
without apparent sign or warning seemed to belong to the atmosphere