" and "Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,"
and "Jane Eyre." All of which are merely mentioned as examples of her
catholicism in literature. As she read she was unaware of the giggling
boys and girls who came in noisily, and made dates, and were coldly
frowned on by the austere Miss Perkins, the librarian. She would read
until the fading light would remind her that the short fall or winter
day was drawing to a close.

She would come, shivering a little after the fetid atmosphere of
the overheated library, into the crisp, cold snap of the astringent
Wisconsin air. Sometimes she would stop at the store for her mother.
Sometimes she would run home alone through the twilight, her heels
scrunching the snow, her whole being filled with a vague and unchildish
sadness and disquiet as she faced the tender rose, and orange, and
mauve, and pale lemon of the winter sunset. There were times when her
very heart ached with the beauty of that color-flooded sky; there were
times, later, when it ached in much the same way at the look in the eyes
of a pushcart peddler; there were times when it ached, seemingly, for no
reason at all--as is sometimes the case when one is a little Jew girl,
with whole centuries of suffering behind one.

On this day she had taken a book from the library Miss Perkins, at sight
of the title, had glared disapprovingly, and had hesitated a moment
before stamping the card.

"Is this for yourself?" she had asked.

"Yes'm."

"It isn't a book for little girls," snapped Miss Perkins.

"I've read half of it already," Fanny informed her sweetly. And went out
with it under her arm. It was Zola's "The Ladies' Paradise" (Au Bonheur
des Dames). The story of the shop girl, and the crushing of the little
dealer by the great and moneyed company had thrilled and fascinated her.

Her mind was full of it as she turned the corner on Norris Street and
ran full-tilt, into a yowling, taunting, torturing little pack of boys.
They were gathered in close formation about some object which they were
teasing, and knocking about in the mud, and otherwise abusing with the
savagery of their years. Fanny, the fiery, stopped short. She pushed
into the ring. The object of their efforts was a weak-kneed and
hollow-chested little boy who could not fight because he was cowardly
as well as weak, and his name (oh, pity!) was Clarence--Clarence Heyl.
There are few things that a mischievous group of small boys cannot
do with a name like Clarenc