self-respect as to sit in his shirt-sleeves. The shop had been rather
dark, the window being full of books, but now through the open door
there poured a little stream of sunshine, reflected from some far off
window. It fell upon a row of old eighteenth century volumes, bound in
dark and rusty leather, and did so light up and glorify the dingy
bindings and faded gold, that they seemed fresh from the binder's
hands, and just ready for the noble purchaser, long since dead and
gone, whose book plate they bore. Some of this golden stream fell also
upon the head of the assistant--it was a red head, with fiery red
eyes, red eyebrows, bristly and thick, and sharp thin features to
match--and it gave him the look of one who is dragged unwillingly into
the sunlight. However, Mr. James took no notice of the sunshine, and
went on with his cataloguing almost as if he liked that kind of work.
There are many people who seem to like dull work, and they would not
be a bit more unhappy if they were made to take the place of Sisyphus,
or transformed into the damsels who are condemned to toil continually
at the weary work of pouring water into a sieve. Perhaps Sisyphus does
not so much mind the continual going up and down hill. "After all," he
might say, "this is better than the lot of poor Ixion. At all events,
I have got my limbs free." Ixion, on the other hand, no doubt, is full
of pity for his poor friend Sisyphus. "I, at least," he says, "have no
work to do. And the rapid motion of the wheel is in sultry weather
sometimes pleasant."

Behind the shop, where had been originally the "back parlor," in the
days when every genteel house in Chelsea had both its front and back
parlor--the latter for sitting and living in, the former for the
reception of company--sat this afternoon the proprietor, the man whose
name had stood above the shop for fifty years, the original and only
Emblem. He was--nay, he is--for you may still find him in his place,