chimneys. He was something of a philosopher, something of a poet,
something of a reformer.

Martie, watching him out of sight, said to herself that she really
must go down soon and see old Dr. Ben, poke among his old books,
feed his pigeons, and scold him for his untidy ways. The girl's
generous imagination threw a veil of romance over his life; she told
Sally that he was like some one in an English story.

After he had gone, the girls idled into the Town Library, a large
room with worn linoleum on the floor, and with level sunlight
streaming in the dusty windows. At the long table devoted to
magazines a few readers were sitting; others hovered over the table
where books just returned were aligned; and here and there, before
the dim bookcases that lined the walls, still others loitered, now
and then picking a book from the shelves, glancing at it, and
restoring it to its place. The room was warm and close with the
smell of old books. The whisking of pages, and occasionally a
sibilant whisper, were its only sounds. From the ceiling depended
signs, bearing the simple command: "Silence"; but this did not
prevent the girls from whispering to the energetic, gray-haired
woman who presided at the desk.

"Hello, girls!" said Miss Fanny Breck cheerfully, in the low tone
she always used in the library. "Want anything to read? You don't?
What are you reading, Martie?"

"I'm reading 'Idylls of the King,'" Sally said.

"I've got 'Only the Governess,'" added Grace.