he work--well,
of course, most girls' work is just a little more than they have the
strength for, always. But I was awfully lucky to get into children's
work. Some of my imps, little Poles and Slovaks and Hungarians mostly,
are the cleverest, most affectionate babies----"

She began to tell him stories of wonderful ten-year-olds who were
Socialists by conviction, and read economics, and dazed little atypical
sixteen-year-olds who read Mother Goose, and stopped even that because
they got married.

"You poor little girl!" said Allan, unheeding. "What brutes they were to
you! Well, thank Heaven, that's over now!"

"Why, Allan!" she said, laying a soothing hand on his. "Nobody was a
brute. There's never more than one crank-in-authority in any library,
they say. Ours was the Supervisor of the Left Half of the Desk, and
after I got out of Circulation I never saw anything of her."

Allan burst into unexpected laughter. "It sounds like a Chinese title of
honor," he explained. "'Grand Warder of the Emperor's Left
Slipper-Rosette,' or something of the sort."

"The Desk's where you get your books stamped," she explained, "and the
two shifts of girls who attend to that part of the work each have a
supervisor--the Right and Left halves. The one that was horrid had
favorites, and snapped at the ones that weren't. I wasn't under her,
though. My Supervisor was lovely, an Irishwoman with the most florid
hats, and the kindest, most just disposition, and always laughing. We
all adored her, she was so fair-minded."

"You think a good deal about laughing," said Allan thoughtfully. "Does it
rank as a virtue in libraries, or what?"

"You have to laugh," explained Phyllis. "If you don't see the laugh-side
of things, you see the cry-side. And you can't afford to be unhappy if
you have to earn your living. People like brightness best. And it's more
comfortable for yourself, once you get used to it."

"So that was your philosophy of life," said Allan. His hand tightened
compassionately on hers. "You _poor_ little girl!... Tell me about the
cry-side, Phyllis."

His voice was very moved and caressing, and the darkness was deepening
as the fire sank. Only an occasional tongue of flame glinted across
Phyllis's silver slipper-buckle and on the seal-ring Allan wore. It was
easy to tell things there in the perfumed duskiness. It was a great many
years since any one had cared to hear the cry-side. And it was so dark,
and the hand keeping hers