books in Mr. Clerron's library. She was not sorry to have so good an
excuse for visiting the familiar room, though its usual occupant was
not there to welcome her. Very quietly and joyfully happy, she trod
slowly along the path through the woods where she last walked with Mr.
Clerron. She was, indeed, at a loss to know why she was so calm. Always
before, a sudden influx of joy testified itself by very active
demonstrations. She was quite sure that she had never in her life been
so happy as now; yet she never had felt less disposed to leap and dance
and sing. The non-solution of the problem, however, did not ruffle her
serenity. She was content to accept the facts, and await patiently the
theory.

Arriving at the house, she went, as usual, into the library without
ringing,--but, not finding the books, proceeded in search of Mrs. Simm.
That notable lady was sitting behind a huge pile of clean clothes,
sorting and mending to her heart's content. She looked up over her
spectacles at Ivy's bright "good morning," and invited her to come in.
Ivy declined, and begged to know if Mrs. Simm had seen her books. To be
sure she had, like the good housekeeper that she was. "You'll find them
in the book-case, second shelf; but, Miss Ivy, I wish you would come
in, for I've had something on my mind that I've felt to tell you this
long while."

Ivy came in, took the seat opposite Mrs. Simm, and waited for her to
speak; but Mrs. Simm seemed to be in no hurry to speak. She dropped her
glasses; Ivy picked them up and handed them to her. She muttered
something about the destructive habits of men, especially in regard to
buttons; and presently, as if determined to come to the subject at
once, abruptly exclaimed,--