Part 11 (2/2)

”This is a serious matter,” she replied gravely. ”Do you know I haven't made tea--afternoon tea, that is--for so long it's a wonder I know which is the cup and which is the saucer?”

”Why not?” he asked idly, yet interestedly too.

”I was otherwise occupied. I was a Daughter of Toil,” explained Phyllis serenely, setting down her own cup to relax in her chair, hands behind her head; looking, in her green gown, the picture of graceful, strong, young indolence. ”I was a librarian--didn't you know?”

”No. I wish you'd tell me, if you don't mind,” said Allan. ”About you, I mean, Phyllis. Do you know, I feel awfully married to you this afternoon--you've bullied me so much it's no wonder--and I really ought to know about my wife's dark past.”

Phyllis's heart beat a little faster. She, too, had felt ”awfully married” here alone in the fire-lit living-room, dealing so intimately and gayly with Allan.

”There isn't much to tell,” she said soberly.

”Come over here closer,” commanded Allan the spoilt. ”We've both had all the tea we want. Come close by the couch. I want to see you when you talk.”

Phyllis did as he ordered.

”I was a New England country minister's daughter,” she began. ”New England country ministers always know lots about Greek and Latin and how to make one dollar do the work of one-seventy-five, but they never have any dollars left when the doing's over. Father and I lived alone together always, and he taught me things, and I petted him--fathers need it, specially when they have country congregations--and we didn't bother much about other folks. Then he--died. I was eighteen, and I had six hundred dollars. I couldn't do arithmetic, because Father had always said it was left out of my head, and I needn't bother with it. So I couldn't teach. Then they said, 'You like books, and you'd better be a librarian.' As a matter of fact, a librarian never gets a chance to read, but you can't explain that to the general public. So I came to the city and took the course at library school. Then I got a position in the Greenway Branch--two years in the circulating desk, four in the cataloguing room, and one in the Children's Department. The short and simple annals of the poor!”

”Go on,” said Allan.

”I believe it's merely that you like the sound of the human voice,” said Phyllis, laughing. ”I'm going to go on with the story of the Five Little Pigs--you'll enjoy it just as much!”

”Exactly,” said Allan. ”Tell me what it was like in the library, please.”

”It was rather interesting,” said Phyllis, yielding at once. ”There are so many different things to be done that you never feel any monotony, as I suppose a teacher does. But the hours are not much shorter than a department store's, and it's exacting, on-your-feet work all the time. I liked the work with the children best. Only--you never have any time to be anything but neat in a library, and you do get so tired of being just neat, if you're a girl.”

”And a pretty one,” said Allan. ”I don't suppose the ugly ones mind as much.”

It was the first thing he had said about her looks. Phyllis's ready color came into her cheeks. So he thought she was pretty!

”Do you--think I'm pretty?” she asked breathlessly. She couldn't help it.

”Of course I do, you little goose,” said Allan, smiling at her.

Phyllis plunged back into the middle of her story:

”You see, you can't sit up nights to sew much, or practise doing your hair new ways, because you need all your strength to get up when the alarm-clock barks next morning. And then, there's always the money-worry, if you have nothing but your salary. Of course, this last year, when I've been getting fifty dollars a month, things have been all right. But when it was only thirty a month in the Circulation--well, that was pretty hard pulling,” said Phyllis thoughtfully. ”But the worst--the worst, Allan, was waking up nights and wondering what would happen if you broke down for a long time. Because you _can't_ very well save for sickness-insurance on even fifty a month. And the 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. ”n.o.body 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 t.i.tle 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 s.h.i.+fts 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.”

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