But it is better, is n't it, not to get to like people?" she said. "Why?"

"O, because

it is safer," she laughed.

"If one is always thinking just what is safe in life, and what is not," Hastings said, crossing one leg over the other, "one is very cautious and safe, but does n't get much enjoyment out of life."

"Do you think there really is so much enjoyment?"

Hastings leaned toward her a moment, one arm on the back of the bench. He was smiling.

"Why yes, don't you?"

"I don't know, said Dorothy, straightening her hat, "sometimes it seems as if there were only a great deal of bother about little things, and an always wondering what it is you ought to do instead of what you want to do." She spoke wistfully and looked away. Hastings was looking at her sympathetically.

"I'll tell you," said Dorothy, throwing back her head a little, "I hate to be always thinking what is proper and what is not."

"O, as long as you know, why bother about it?" laughed Hastings. "There is a good deal too much worrying in this world over small things. I never worry."

"Now I ought to be reading Romola"," said Dorothy with a sweet laugh. "But I don't want to."

"You can't read a book of that sort on a summer trip," said the young man easily. "It is a great deal more proper that you should be talking with me.'

"Are you quite sure about that?" "O, quite sure, you need n't look so troubled about it. 'Romola' will last a long time after today."

He began to tell her where he lived when

VOL. XXX- -8

he was a boy, and what he did at college. They talked together all the morning, following the shade of the life boat around on the deck, and carrying "Romola."

66

'Do you think those people across the way are married?" Dorothy asked him at lunch.

"Why yes, don't you see? They look at us oftener than at each other."

"I thought they might be brother and sister," explained Dorothy.

"In that case," said Hastings, "they would talk more toget er. They think we are bride and groom, nd they enjoy us. They remember when they were young."

A fine color came int Dorothy's face. "They don't know," she said with a little excitement, "that we have never even been introduced."

Later in the afternoon the Santa Rosa reached the wharf at Santa Barbara. Dorothy stood near the rail, looking with admiration at the high mountains, and at their feet the little town, lying among its palms and eucalyptus trees, whose leaves shimmered in the sunlight. Hastings was standing with her.

What are you going to telegraph?" "O, that I am safe."

Mr. Hastings laughed.

Miss Dunton proved to be a quiet young woman whom Dorothy had not noticed before, and the three walked down the gangplank, and started off up the wharf. The water was rolling underneath and they soon came to where the waves broke on the beach under it with a long murmur, and they strolled on up the street. Dorothy felt as if she were with two very old friends walking in a strange country. One of them walked on each side of her. They met some carriages full of rather fine looking people driving toward the beach, and looked at and made comments on them freely, they met many Spanish-looking people, tall dark-eyed young men in wide-brimmed hats, women with a good deal of powder on their faces. At the end of the street the mountain went straight up, there were

"Don't worry, we won't, if you don't want to," said Hastings, looking at her with a smile.

"I want to eat my dinner here," said Dorothy Dalton decidedly.

All the people on the veranda were staring at her; she was certainly very pretty with that rich color in her cheeks and her laughing, excited eyes. The three had a table in the deserted dining-room together; the dinner was rather slow in arriving, but when it did was very good. Hastings went out once or twice to the office to hurry it up. There were two girls there in tennis suits and broad-brimmed hats, who were much interested in him, but he paid them no attention whatever.

"Now, is n't this better than eating on the steamer," he said to Dorothy with a happy smile, "with the two stout ones all eyes opposite? You must remember this if ever you come here again."

"I will," said Dorothy.

At that moment a young man came rushing into the dining-room. He was goodlooking, well-dressed. He came to Hastings and laid his hand on his arm.

"Old fellow, I'm awfully glad to see you," he said. "Just saw your names in the register. I did n't know you were married, introduce me to your wife. I suppose you 're going out again on this steamer?" His eyes had already wandered to Dorothy with honest admiration.

Hastings looked at Dorothy too, and smiled reassuringly. He leaned toward her and whispered, "He thinks you are my

wife. Is n't that a joke?" Then aloud "Miss Dunton, Mr. Matthews," and laughingly, "Mr. Matthews, Mrs. Hastings, the not impossible she."

They all laughed. Dorothy was in too good spirits not to enter into the joke. She rather liked the looks of this new young man. He sat down by her immediately and began to talk volubly of all the interesting things he could think of, and Dorothy listened, smiling. Hastings tried to talk to Miss Dunton, but ended by playing with his teaspoon while his face clouded.

When they started for the boat Matthews kept along with Dorothy, and Hastings followed with Miss Dunton. Dorothy was interested in the "new" young man, but after a time stemmed the current of his conversation long enough to say: "It is all a joke, Mr. Matthews. I am not Mrs. Hastings at all. I am Miss Dalton." What prompted her who knows, but she added, "You need not tell him I gave his joke away."

"But I saw it in the register," said Matthews, a light dawning, "but I won't tell him." He was even more attentive after that. Dorothy looked back and saw that Hastings was walking very somberly beside Miss Dunton, and met her glance reproachfully. All this added to the zest of the affair, and wicked Dorothy at the gangplank bade Mr. Matthews a cordial adieu. They had discovered mutual friends.

The three went up without saying anything; they were standing together as the steamer swung off. Hastings kept looking at Dorothy, and she avoided his look, and Miss Dunton stayed with them. She stayed so long that at last Hastings took a little walk with her and came back without her. He stood beside Dorothy without speaking, then she turned:

"Why did you register that way? Don't you owe me an apology?"

66

What can I say?" said Hastings with a gesture of helplessness. "It is hard always to explain one's motives. How can I tell you all that was in my mind, but I am sorry."

She was looking away.

Is that enough?" he asked quite humbly. "Yes."

"I thought," he went on to say, "that you said you were always worrying about what was proper. It did n't worry you when you met Matthews,- did it?”

"I did n't think of it," said Dorothy candidly. "It is very easy to forget when you have once begun.'

A cold breeze was blowing, and the sun had gone down. Everyone else had gone below stairs.

"It is going to be a glorious night,” said Hastings. "Let me bring some chairs and we can sit out here, in front of your room. Don't you want to get a shawl?"

Dorothy obediently went inside and came out wrapped in her soft white shawl, they sat in the chairs leaning back against the wall of the cabin. This was a very comfortable position, and the cool air was exhilarating.

"It is a glorious night," Dorothy said. "I'm glad," said Hastings, "for this is the last night I shall have. I get off at Redondo early in the morning."

Dorothy's throat became a little dry. This frightened her and she asked quickly, "At what time?"

"Six o'clock. You have another day, have n't you?"

"No. I ought to read 'Romola,' and I am going to do it, even on an ocean voyage." A summer trip. Does n't it seem somehow as if this were a different world from the common work-a-day one, with all its business and bustle and worry?"

"Yes," said Dorothy. "The light out there in the sky is so beautiful, and the sound of the water, don't you like to hear it splashing against the side of the steamer?" "I haven't been noticing," said Hastings. "And do you think that tomorrow at this time," Dorothy said, "I shall be at home again?"

does n't seem to be given the choice in this world. You all at once find yourself living one or the other. I've been imagining you ten years from now, pray forgive me the liberty. You will always be charming, but you will always do what other people think you ought. You will be very exclusive, unless your husband likes the other thing, and very haughty, not liking many people, but admired by a great many, a trifle hard on other women may be, but always correct."

"You give me a horrid character," said Dorothy, with dissatisfaction. "What a contempt you must feel for me if you think I will really be only like that!"

"O, but you won't be only, there will be another woman in you-deeper down. Do you mind my analyzing you? I have got into a way of doing that, meeting so many people for such a short time."

Nothing, you were not even shocked.

I never did such a thing before in my life." And never will again?"

66

"O, no. At home I do not meet strange young men so often, or get acquainted with them so quickly."

66

Am I a strange young man?" He went on to answer his own question. "You know that thing of Longfellow's, don't you,

Ships in the darkness that bespeak one another in passing

"I can't quote."

"I like that," said Hastings. "It is very hard on a man sometimes," he went on, "to be a wanderer. It may mean enjoyment, you know, but it means no home, too. It must be very nice to have a home."

"O, it is," said Dorothy."

"I wish sometimes that I had one and a wife to keep me straight." He had gotten up, walked a step or two, and then sat down again. "I hope I have n't startled you. But it would be too much of an experiment," he said as if to himself. Then to her, "Do you often have a very strong wish which you know simply that fate will not allow you to fulfill?"

"No," she said very softly.

"I have," he said, "so I gave up long ago. I just wander. Fate is too strong for me."

"I am sorry."

"That fate is too strong for me?" "Yes."

"O, there's nothing much to be sorry about."

After a while he got up and said goodnight. He held her hand for quite a while and looked down into her eyes.

"I suppose this is goodby too," he said. "I am glad to have known you, anyway." 'Goodby."

66

Dorothy went into her stateroom, closed the door, and as she looked in the glass there were tears in her eyes, which horrified her.

She woke up very early the next morning, and almost before she was well awake, was up dressing, she was going to see him again before he went. When she stepped out of her door, he was standing just outside. The boat had stopped at Redondo, and the gangplank was already out. He came toward her quickly.

"I am never going to forget you,” he said. "Goodby."

"I shall never be happy again," she said simply, looking up at him passionately.

As he went down the gangplank she suddenly felt very small and lonely. How very dreary that last day was! Dorothy read "Romola," but she was the prey of doubts and fears. She went over all the events of the last two days and decided that there had never been so bold and improper a girl as herself since the world began. She could recall none among all her girl acquaintances who had had flirtations with men they had n't met, and she felt she had lost all right ever to be proud again. She felt deprecating and meek. She looked upon the girls with jewelry as they passed her, with tolerance. She read "Romola" with avidity to drown her thoughts, but that evening when she was preparing to leave the boat, she noticed that she had grown pale.

Her mother was waiting for her at the wharf in the carriage.

"I had a letter from Mrs. Barker at the Arlington today," said her mother, as they drove home. "She saw you there and wrote me immediately. I could hardly believe it at first. I am very glad you are at home." "O, Mother! I shall never be happy again."

Petty things are always the most trying, that was why Dorothy was so deeply annoyed by the smiles of her friends to whom Mrs. Barker had also written. They were no longer afraid of her, so there was no longer any reason for her being haughty. However, even after she had married one of the young men from Oakland, a certain withered rose was hidden among her treasures: it was one Hastings had picked for her at the Arlington. It belonged to the other woman in her, deep down, which the young man from Oakland never knew.

HE present decade has witnessed the foundation of several great libraries and the re-organization of others. The movement has not come too soon. Library organization in the United States has been studied with success, and we have a school of librarians whose intelligence and fitness is beyond praise. By their congresses and by their printed papers the main principles, and more especially the details, of their work have received a thorough examination. It might seem that there was little left to be said on matters of organization and policy. But a great library has to meet the wants of a very varied constituency, and it may not be impertinent for one of the outsiders and tax-payers to present a few considerations, from the non-technical point of view, which relate rather to principles than to details. I recollect a sightseer at the Naval Observatory of Washington who who asked to be furnished with a volume which had cost the government eight dollars to print. He was highly indignant when his request was denied. He was a tax-payer, he said, and demanded the volume as his right. Admiral Rodgers made a short calculation. on his blotting-pad and came to the conclusion that, as one of fifty millions, his visitor's share was less than five cents; and thereupon tendered that coin in payment. There are seventy-five millions of us now, and the share of each is small. But each one has a right to be heard at least.

The seventy-five million people do not all want, nor need, the same thing. There are fourteen million school-children, for instance, with special needs. It is vital to our continuance as a nation that they shall be taught to comprehend the fundamental principle of all government liberty with order but it is not necessary, nor prac

ticable, nor desirable, that they should all be instructed in the higher walks of literature or science. The gates are open to all; but only a few will enter--can enter.

The school child absorbs. He does not add to knowledge, though he may do so. This chance must be kept in mind and he must be considered as a possible creator. The first duty of some libraries is to reach everybody in the community beginning with the lowest minds and going as high as may be. This is precisely in keeping with American ideas at present, and the duty is not likely to be forgotten. The scores of libraries (of which the Boston Public Library, with its 575,000 volumes, is perhaps the best-known type) that provide every possible convenience for their constituents, make it certain that the library will soon be brought to every door. The humblest has only to ask. The college library regards the wants of a different class, and in general, provides for them admirably. The libraries of Harvard (474,000 volumes), Chicago (280,000), Yale (215,000), Columbia (160,000), are excellent examples. A large and increasing proportion of the men who are to shape the fate of the Republic in the next century will be furnished by the colleges. Fine scholarship, balanced character, originality, open and flexible intelligence, directive power, are fostered in Academic shades. Enlightened public opinion is essential in the Republic. This will always be formed by ideas originated by a very small number of thinkers, and subsequently adopted by millions of citizens. It is indispensable to educate the whole mass of voters intelligently to select and receive their standards of action, but it is vital to encourage by every practicable means the creation of such standards by the comparatively few.

In every great city, Washington, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, at least one great library should be maintained whose first duty is to meet the wants of the very