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