he afternoon, and each reader was
allowed to take out only one book at a time. Long before one o'clock I
was to be seen on the library steps, waiting for the door of paradise
to open. I spent hours in the reading-room, pleased with the
atmosphere of books, with the order and quiet of the place, so unlike
anything on Arlington Street. The sense of these things permeated my
consciousness even when I was absorbed in a book, just as the rustle
of pages turned and the tiptoe tread of the librarian reached my ear,
without distracting my attention. Anything so wonderful as a library
had never been in my life. It was even better than school in some
ways. One could read and read, and learn and learn, as fast as one
knew how, without being obliged to stop for stupid little girls and
inattentive little boys to catch up with the lesson. When I went home
from the library I had a book under my arm; and I would finish it
before the library opened next day, no matter till what hours of the
night I burned my little lamp.

What books did I read so diligently? Pretty nearly everything that
came to my hand. I dare say the librarian helped me select my books,
but, curiously enough, I do not remember. Something must have directed
me, for I read a great many of the books that are written for
children. Of these I remember with the greatest delight Louisa
Alcott's stories. A less attractive series of books was of the Sunday
School type. In volume after volume a very naughty little girl by the
name of Lulu was always going into tempers, that her father might have
opportunity to lecture her and point to her angelic little sister,
Gracie, as an example of what she should be; after which they all felt
better and prayed. Next to Louisa Alcott's books in my esteem were
boys' books of adventure, many of them by Horatio Alger; and I read
all, I suppose, of the Rollo books, by Jacob Abbott.

But that was not all. I read every kind of printed rubbish that came
into the house, by design or accident. A weekly story paper of a worse
than worthless character, that circulated widely in our neighborhood
because subscribers were rewarded with a premium of a diamond ring,
warranted I don't know how many karats, occupied me for hours. The
stories in this paper resembled, in breathlessness of plot, abundance
of horrors, and improbability of characters, the things I used to read
in Vitebsk. The text was illustrated by frequent pictures, in which
the villain gener