That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk
chair tilted back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp.
All the windows were open, but the night was breathless
after the sandstorm, and his hair was moist where it hung
over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his book
and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. When
Thea Kronborg entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he
nodded, finished his paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and
rose to put the book back into the case. It was one out of
the long row of uniform volumes on the top shelf.

"Nearly every time I come in, when you're alone, you're
reading one of those books," Thea remarked thoughtfully.
"They must be very nice."

The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mot-
tled volume still in his hand. "They aren't exactly books,
Thea," he said seriously. "They're a city."

"A history, you mean?"

"Yes, and no. They're a history of a live city, not a
dead one. A Frenchman undertook to write about a whole
cityful of people, all the kinds he knew. And he got them
nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it's very interesting. You'll
like to read it some day, when you're grown up."