Mr. Tolman stared at her. She was a bright, handsome young lady and looked as if she had very good sense. He could not understand it. But he told her the book was out.

“Out!” she said. “Why, it’s always out. It seems strange to me that there should be such a demand for that book. I have been trying to get it for ever so long.”

“It is strange,” said Mr. Tolman; “but it is certainly in demand. Did Mrs. Walker ever make you any promises about it?”

“No,” said she; “but I thought my turn would come around some time. And I particularly want the book just now.”

Mr. Tolman felt somewhat troubled. He knew that the night druggist ought not to monopolise the volume, and yet he did not wish to disoblige one who was so useful to him and who took such an earnest interest in the book. And he could not temporise with the young lady and say that he thought the book would soon be in. He knew it would not. There were three hundred and forty pages of it. So he merely remarked that he was sorry.

“So am I,” said the young lady, “very sorry. It so happens that just now I have a peculiar opportunity for studying that book which may not occur again.”

There was something in Mr. Tolman’s sympathetic face which seemed to invite her confidence, and she continued.

“I am a teacher,” she said, “and on account of certain circumstances I have a holiday for a month, which I intended to give up almost entirely to the study of music, and I particularly wanted ‘Dormstock.’ Do you think there is any chance of its early return, and will you reserve it for me?”

“Reserve it!” said Mr. Tolman. “Most certainly I will.” And then he reflected a second or two. “If you will come here the day after to-morrow, I will be able to tell you something definite.”

She said she would come.

Mr. Tolman was out a long time at lunch-time the next day. He went to all the leading bookstores to see if he could buy a copy of Dormstock’s great work. But he was unsuccessful. The booksellers told him that there was no probability that he could get a copy in the country, unless, indeed, he found it in the stock of some second-hand dealer. There was no demand at all for it, and that if he even sent for it to England, where it was published, it was not likely he could get it, for it had been long out of print. The next day he went to several second-hand stores, but no “Dormstock” could he find.

When he came back he spoke to Glascow on the subject. He was sorry to do so, but thought that simple justice compelled him to mention the matter. The night druggist was thrown into a perturbed state of mind by the information that some one wanted his beloved book.

“A woman!” he exclaimed. “Why, she would not understand two pages out of the whole of it. It is too bad. I didn’t suppose any one would want this book.”

“Do not disturb yourself too much,” said Mr. Tolman. “I am not sure that you ought to give it up.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so,” said Glascow. “I have no doubt it is only a passing fancy with her. I dare say she would really rather have a good new novel”; and then, having heard that the lady was expected that afternoon, he went out to walk, with the “Dormstock” under his arm.

When the young lady arrived, an hour or so later, she was not at all satisfied to take out a new novel, and was very sorry indeed not to find the Logarithms of the Diapason waiting for her. Mr. Tolman told her that he had tried to buy another copy of the work, and for this she expressed herself gratefully. He