brain was losing something of its inflexibility; that,
by reading slowly, one perusal of an ordinary book was sufficient. Her
memory was still incomplete, but it was improving. Her mother had ceased
to overlook her choice of books, being satisfied that Magdalena would
never care for trash.

Magdalena always found the big dark house oppressive after the months in
Menlo Park, and went out as often as she could. On fine days, attended
by Julie, she usually walked down to the Mercantile Library, and prowled
among the dusty shelves. The old Mercantile Library in Bush Street,
almost in the heart of the business portion of the city, had the most
venerable air of any building in California. There was, indeed, danger
of coming out covered with blue mould. And it was very dark and very
gloomy. It has always been suspected that it was a favourite resort for
suicides, but this, happily, has never been proved.

But Magdalena loved it, for it held many thousand volumes, and they were
all at her disposal. Her membership was worth more to her than all her
father's riches. Julie, who hated the library, always carried a chair at
once to the register and closed her eyes, that she might not be
depressed to tears by the gloom and the walls of books, which were bound
as became all that was left of the dead.

It was during one of these visits that Magdalena approached another
crisis of her inner life. She was wandering about aimlessly, hardly
knowing what she wanted, when her eye was caught by the title of a book
on an upper shelf: "Conflict between Religion and Science." She knew
nothing about science, but she wondered in what manner religion could
conflict with anything. She took the book down and read the first few
lines, then the page, then the chapter, still standing. When she had
finished she made as if to replace the book, then put it resolutely
under her arm, called Julie, and went home.

She read during the remainder of the afternoon, and as far into the
night as she dared. Before she went to bed she said her prayers more
fervently than ever, and the next morning considered deeply whether or
not she should return the book half read. She finally concluded to
finish it. Her intellect was voracious, and she had no other companion
but her religion. Moreover, if she was to aspire to a position in the
world of letters, she must equip her mind with the best that had gone
before. She had every faith in the power of the Catholic religion t