The little girl looked very much disappointed. “Is Mrs. Walker gone away for good?” said she.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Tolman. “But I would be just as willing to lend you the milk as she would be if I had any. Is there any place near here where you can buy milk?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl; “you can get it round in the market-house.”

“How much would half a pint cost?” he asked.

“Three cents,” replied the girl.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Tolman, “here are three cents. You can go and buy the milk for me and then you can borrow it. Will that suit?”

The girl thought it would suit very well, and away she went.

Even this little incident pleased Mr. Tolman. It was so very novel. When he came back from his dinner in the evening, he found two circulating library subscribers stamping their feet on the door-step, and he afterwards heard that several others had called and gone away. It would certainly injure the library if he suspended business at meal-times. He could easily have his choice of a hundred boys if he chose to advertise for one, but he shrank from having a youngster in the place. It would interfere greatly with his cosiness and his experiences. He might possibly find a boy who went to school, and who would be willing to come at noon and in the evening if he were paid enough. But it would have to be a very steady and responsible boy. He would think it over before taking any steps.

He thought it over for a day or two, but he did not spend his whole time in doing so. When he had no customers, he sauntered about in the little parlour over the shop, with its odd old furniture, its quaint prints on the walls, and its absurd ornaments on the mantelpiece. The other little rooms seemed almost as funny to him, and he was sorry when the bell on the shop door called him down from their contemplation. It was pleasant to him to think that he owned all these odd things. The ownership of the varied goods in the shop also gave him an agreeable feeling which none of his other possessions had ever afforded him. It was all so odd and novel.

He liked much to look over the books in the library. Many of them were old novels, the names of which were familiar enough to him, but which he had never read. He determined to read some of them as soon as he felt fixed and settled.

In looking over the book in which the names and accounts of the subscribers were entered, he amused himself by wondering what sort of persons they were who had out certain books. Who, for instance, wanted to read The Book of Cats; and who could possibly care for The Mysteries of Udolpho? But the unknown person in regard to whom Mr. Tolman felt the greatest curiosity was the subscriber who now had in his possession a volume entitled Dormstock’s Logarithms of the Diapason.

“How on earth,” exclaimed Mr. Tolman, “did such a book get into this library; and where on earth did the person spring from who would want to take it out? And not only want to take it,” he continued as he examined the entry regarding the volume, “but come and have it renewed one, two, three, four—nine times! He has had that book for eighteen weeks!”

Without exactly making up his mind to do so, Mr. Tolman deferred taking steps toward getting an assistant until P. Glascow, the person in question, should make an appearance, and it was nearly time for the book to be brought in again.

“If I get a boy now,” thought Mr. Tolman, “Glascow will be sure to come and bring the book while I am out.”