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“
Oh
,
well
—
—
”
he
said
again
.
She
knew
he
was
going
,
and
wished
more
than
ever
to
find
the
book
.
“
It
will
be
for
next
time
,
”
he
added
;
and
picking
up
the
volume
he
had
laid
on
the
desk
he
handed
it
to
her
.
“
By
the
way
,
a
little
air
and
sun
would
do
this
good
;
it
’
s
rather
valuable
.
”
He
gave
her
a
nod
and
smile
,
and
passed
out
.
The
hours
of
the
Hatchard
Memorial
librarian
were
from
three
to
five
;
and
Charity
Royall
’
s
sense
of
duty
usually
kept
her
at
her
desk
until
nearly
half
-
past
four
.
But
she
had
never
perceived
that
any
practical
advantage
thereby
accrued
either
to
North
Dormer
or
to
herself
;
and
she
had
no
scruple
in
decreeing
,
when
it
suited
her
,
that
the
library
should
close
an
hour
earlier
.
A
few
minutes
after
Mr
.
Harney
’
s
departure
she
formed
this
decision
,
put
away
her
lace
,
fastened
the
shutters
,
and
turned
the
key
in
the
door
of
the
temple
of
knowledge
.
The
street
upon
which
she
emerged
was
still
empty
:
and
after
glancing
up
and
down
it
she
began
to
walk
toward
her
house
.
But
instead
of
entering
she
passed
on
,
turned
into
a
field
-
path
and
mounted
to
a
pasture
on
the
hillside
.
She
let
down
the
bars
of
the
gate
,
followed
a
trail
along
the
crumbling
wall
of
the
pasture
,
and
walked
on
till
she
reached
a
knoll
where
a
clump
of
larches
shook
out
their
fresh
tassels
to
the
wind
.
There
she
lay
down
on
the
slope
,
tossed
off
her
hat
and
hid
her
face
in
the
grass
.
She
was
blind
and
insensible
to
many
things
,
and
dimly
knew
it
;
but
to
all
that
was
light
and
air
,
perfume
and
colour
,
every
drop
of
blood
in
her
responded
.
She
loved
the
roughness
of
the
dry
mountain
grass
under
her
palms
,
the
smell
of
the
thyme
into
which
she
crushed
her
face
,
the
fingering
of
the
wind
in
her
hair
and
through
her
cotton
blouse
,
and
the
creak
of
the
larches
as
they
swayed
to
it
.
She
often
climbed
up
the
hill
and
lay
there
alone
for
the
mere
pleasure
of
feeling
the
wind
and
of
rubbing
her
cheeks
in
the
grass
.
Generally
at
such
times
she
did
not
think
of
anything
,
but
lay
immersed
in
an
inarticulate
well
-
being
.
Today
the
sense
of
well
-
being
was
intensified
by
her
joy
at
escaping
from
the
library
.
She
liked
well
enough
to
have
a
friend
drop
in
and
talk
to
her
when
she
was
on
duty
,
but
she
hated
to
be
bothered
about
books
.
How
could
she
remember
where
they
were
,
when
they
were
so
seldom
asked
for
?
Orma
Fry
occasionally
took
out
a
novel
,
and
her
brother
Ben
was
fond
of
what
he
called
“
jography
,
”
and
of
books
relating
to
trade
and
bookkeeping
;
but
no
one
else
asked
for
anything
except
,
at
intervals
,
“
Uncle
Tom
’
s
Cabin
,
”
or
“
Opening
of
a
Chestnut
Burr
,
”
or
Longfellow
.
She
had
these
under
her
hand
,
and
could
have
found
them
in
the
dark
;
but
unexpected
demands
came
so
rarely
that
they
exasperated
her
like
an
injustice
.
.
.
.
She
had
liked
the
young
man
’
s
looks
,
and
his
short
-
sighted
eyes
,
and
his
odd
way
of
speaking
,
that
was
abrupt
yet
soft
,
just
as
his
hands
were
sun
-
burnt
and
sinewy
,
yet
with
smooth
nails
like
a
woman
’
s
.
His
hair
was
sunburnt
-
looking
too
,
or
rather
the
colour
of
bracken
after
frost
;
his
eyes
grey
,
with
the
appealing
look
of
the
shortsighted
,
his
smile
shy
yet
confident
,
as
if
he
knew
lots
of
things
she
had
never
dreamed
of
,
and
yet
wouldn
’
t
for
the
world
have
had
her
feel
his
superiority
.
But
she
did
feel
it
,
and
liked
the
feeling
;
for
it
was
new
to
her
.
Poor
and
ignorant
as
she
was
,
and
knew
herself
to
be
—
humblest
of
the
humble
even
in
North
Dormer
,
where
to
come
from
the
Mountain
was
the
worst
disgrace
—
yet
in
her
narrow
world
she
had
always
ruled
.
