as to call for her at the minister's at
nine o'clock. Sylvia went directly to the Wares' from school, and on
reaching the house learned that Mrs. Ware had not come home and that the
minister was engaged with a caller in the parlor. Sylvia, who knew the
ways of the house well, left her wraps in the hall and made herself
comfortable in the study, that curious little room that was never free
from the odor of pipe smoke, and where an old cavalry sabre hung above
the desk upon which in old times many sermons had been written. A
saddle, a fishing-rod, and a fowling-piece dwelt together harmoniously
in one corner, and over the back of a chair hung a dilapidated corduroy
coat.

It had been whispered in orthodox circles that Ware had amused himself
one winter after his retirement by profanely feeding his theological
library into the furnace. However true this may be, few authors were
represented in his library, and these were as far as possible compressed
in one volume. Shakespeare, Milton, Emerson, Arnold, and Whittier were
always ready to his hand; and he kept a supply of slender volumes of
Sill's "Poems" in a cupboard in the hall and handed them out
discriminatingly to his callers. The house was the resort of many young
people, some of them children of Ware's former parishioners, and he was
much given to discussing books with them; or he would read
aloud--"Sohrab and Rustum," Lowell's essay on Lincoln, or favorite
chapters from "Old Curiosity Shop"; or again, it might be a review
article on the social trend or a fresh view of an old economic topic.
The Wares' was the pleasantest of small houses and after Mrs. Owen's the
place sought oftenest by Sylvia.

"There's a gentleman with Mr. Ware: he's been here a long time," said
the maid, lingering to lay a fresh stick of wood on the grate fire.

Sylvia, warming her hands at the blaze, heard the faint blur of voices
from the parlor. She surveyed the room with the indifference of
familiarity, glanced at a new magazine, and then sat down at the desk
and picked up a book she had never noticed before. She was surprised to
find it a copy of "Society and Solitude" that did not match the
well-thumbed set of Emerson--one of the few "sets" Ware owned. She
passed her hand over the green covers, that were well worn and scratched
in places. The fact that the minister boasted in his humorous way of
never wasting money on bindings caused Sylvia to examine this volume
with an attention she woul