The Bread-winners | Page 4

Washington, from the White House down."
"Well, you are president of the Library Board, ain't you?" asked the
high-school graduate. "I think I would like to be one of the librarians."
"Why would you like that?"
"Oh, the work is light, I suppose, and you see people, and get plenty of
time for reading, and the pay is better than I could get at anything else.
The fact is," she began to gain confidence as she talked, "I don't want to
go on in the old humdrum way forever, doing housework and sewing,
and never getting a chance at anything better. I have enough to eat and
to wear at home, but the soul has some claims too, and I long for the
contact of higher natures than those by whom I am now surrounded. I
want opportunities for self-culture, for intercourse with kindred spirits,
for the attainment of a higher destiny."
She delivered these swelling words with great fluency, mentally
congratulating herself that she had at last got fairly started, and wishing
she could have struck into that vein at the beginning. Farnham was
listening to her with more of pain than amusement, saying to himself:
"The high school has evidently spoiled her for her family and friends,
and fitted her for nothing else."

"I do not know that there is a vacancy in the library."
"Oh, yes, there is," she rejoined, briskly; "I have been to see the
librarian himself, and I flatter myself I made a favorable impression. In
fact, the old gentleman seemed really smitten."
"That is quite possible," said Farnham. "But I hope you will not amuse
yourself by breaking his heart."
"I can't promise. He must look out for his own heart." She had regained
her saucy ease, and evidently enjoyed the turn the conversation was
taking. "I find my hands full taking care of myself."
"You are quite sure you can do that?"
"Certainly, sir!" This was said with pouting lips, half-shut eyes, the
head thrown back, the chin thrust forward, the whole face bright with
smiles of provoking defiance. "Do you doubt it, Monsieur?" She
pronounced this word Moshoor.
Farnham thought in his heart "You are about as fit to take care of
yourself as a plump pigeon at a shooting match." But he said to her,
"Perhaps you are right--only don't brag. It isn't lucky. I do not know
what are the chances about this place. You would do well to get some
of your friends to write a letter or two in your behalf, and I will see
what can be done at the next meeting of the Board."
But her returning fluency had warmed up Miss Maud's courage
somewhat, and instead of taking her leave she began again, blushingly,
but still boldly enough:
"There is something I would like much better than the library."
Farnham looked at her inquiringly. She did not hesitate in the least, but
pushed on energetically, "I have thought you must need a secretary. I
should be glad to serve you in that capacity."
The young man stared with amazement at this preposterous proposal.

For the first time, he asked himself if the girl's honest face could be the
ambush of a guileful heart; but he dismissed the doubt in an instant, and
said, simply:
"No, thank you. I am my own secretary, and have no reason for
displacing the present incumbent. The library will suit you better in
every respect."
In her embarrassment she began to feel for her glasses, which were
lying in her lap. Farnham picked up a small photograph from the table
near him, and said:
"Do you recognize this?"
"Yes," she said. "It is General Grant."
"It is a photograph of him, taken in Paris, which I received to-day. May
I ask a favor of you?"
"What is it?" she said, shyly.
"Stop wearing those glasses. They are of no use to you, and they will
injure your eyes."
Her face turned crimson. Without a word of reply she seized the glasses
and put them on, her eyes flashing fire. She then rose and threw her
shawl over her arm, and said, in a tone to which her repressed anger
lent a real dignity:
"When can I learn about that place in the library?"
"Any time after Wednesday," Farnham answered.
She bowed and walked out of the room. She could not indulge in tragic
strides, for her dress held her like a scabbard, giving her scarcely more
freedom of movement than the high-born maidens of Carthage enjoyed,
who wore gold fetters on their ankles until they were married. But in
spite of all impediments her tall figure moved, with that grace which is
the birthright of beauty in any circumstances, out of the door, through

the wide hall to the outer entrance, so