Margaret had never met any man but her father who was so fond of
books as Professor Renmark. The young fellows of her acquaintance
read scarcely anything but the weekly papers; they went with some care
through the yellow almanac that was given away free, with the grocer’s
name printed on the back. The marvelous cures the almanac recorded were
of little interest, and were chiefly read by the older folk, but the
young men reveled in the jokes to be found at the bottom of every page,
their only drawback being that one could never tell the stories at a
paring-bee or other social gathering, because everyone in the company
had read them. A few of the young men came sheepishly round to get a
book out of the library, but it was evident that their interest was not
so much in the volume as in the librarian, and when that fact became
apparent to the girl, she resented it. Margaret was thought to be cold
and proud by the youth of the neighborhood, or “stuck-up,” as they
expressed it.
To such a girl a man like Renmark was a revelation. He could talk of
other things than the weather, live stock, and the prospects for the
crops. The conversation at first did not include Margaret, but she
listened to every word of it with interest. Her father and mother were
anxious to hear about their boy; and from that engrossing subject the
talk soon drifted to university life, and the differences between city
and country. At last the farmer, with a sigh, arose to go. There is
little time for pleasant talk on a farm while daylight lasts. Margaret,
remembering her duties as librarian, began to take in the books from the
wagon to the front room. Renmark, slow in most things, was quick enough
to offer his assistance on this occasion; but he reddened somewhat as he
did so, for he was unused to being a squire of dames.
“I wish you would let me do the porterage,” he said. “I would like to
earn the right to look at these books sometimes, even though I may not
have the privilege of borrowing, not being a taxable resident of the
township.”
“The librarian,” answered Margaret, with a smile, “seems to be at
liberty to use her own discretion in the matter of lending. No one has
authority to look over her accounts, or to censure her if she lends
recklessly. So, if you wish to borrow books, all you have to do is to
ask for them.”
“You may be sure I shall avail myself of the permission. But my
conscience will be easier if I am allowed to carry them in.”
“You will be permitted to help. I like carrying them. There is no more
delicious armful than books.”
As Renmark looked at the lovely girl, her face radiant with enthusiasm,
the disconcerting thought came suddenly that perhaps her statement
might not be accurate. No such thought had ever suggested itself to him
before, and it now filled him with guilty confusion. He met the clear,
honest gaze of her eyes for a moment, then he stammered lamely:
“I--I too am very fond of books.”
Together they carried in the several hundred volumes, and then began to
arrange them.
“Have you no catalogue?” he asked.
“No. We never seem to need one. People come and look over the library,
and take out whatever book they fancy.”
“Yes, but still every library ought to be catalogued. Cataloguing is an
art in itself. I have paid a good deal of attention to it, and will show
you how it is done, if you care to know.”
“Oh, I wish you would.”
“How do you keep a record of the volumes that are out?”
“I just write the name of the person, the title, and the date in this
blank book. When the volume is returned, I score out the record.”
“I see,” said Renmark dubiously.
“That isn’t right, is it? Is there a better way?”
“Well, for a small library, that ought to do; but if you were handling
many books, I think confusion might result.”
“Do tell me the right way. I should like to know, even if it is a small
library.”
“There are several methods, but I am by no means sure your way is not
the simplest, and therefore the best in this instance.”
“I’m not going to be put off like that,” said Margaret, laughing. “A
collection of books is a collection of books, whether large or small,
and deserves respect and the best of treatment. Now, what method is used
in large libraries?”
“Well, I should suggest a system of cards, though slips of paper would
do. When any person wants to take out a book, let him make out a card,
giving the date and the name or number of the book; he then must sign
the card, and there you are. He cannot deny having had the book, for
you have his own signature to prove it. The slips are arranged in a
box according to dates, and when a book is returned, you tear up the
recording paper.”
“I think that is a very good way, and I will adopt it.”
“Then let me send to Toronto and get you a few hundred cards. We’ll have
them here in a day or two.”
“Oh, I don’t want to put you to that trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all. Now, that is settled, let us attack the
catalogue. Have you a blank book anywhere about? We will first make an
alphabetical list; then we will arrange them under the heads of history,
biography, fiction, and so on.”
Simple as it appeared, the making of a catalogue took a long time. Both
were absorbed in their occupation. Cataloguing in itself is a straight
and narrow path, but in this instance there were so many delightful side
excursions that rapid progress could not be expected. To a reader the
mere mention of a book brings up recollections. Margaret was reading
out the names; Renmark, on slips of paper, each with a letter on it, was
writing them down.
“Oh, have you that book?” he would say, looking up as a title was
mentioned. “Have you ever read it?”
“No; for, you see, this part of the library is all new to me. Why, here
is one of which the leaves are not even cut. No one has read it. Is it
good?”
“One of the best,” Renmark would say, taking the volume. “Yes, I know
this edition. Let me read you one passage.”
And Margaret would sit in the rocking while he cut the leaves and found
the place. One extract was sure to suggest another, and time passed
before the title of the book found its way to the proper slip of
paper. These excursions into literature were most interesting to both
excursionists, but they interfered with cataloguing. Renmark read
and read, ever and anon stopping to explain some point, or quote what
someone else had said on the same subject, marking the place in the
book, as he paused, with inserted fore finger. Margaret swayed back and
forth in the comfortable rocking chair, and listened intently, her large
dark eyes fixed upon him so earnestly that now and then, when he met
them, he seemed disconcerted for a moment. But the girl did not notice
this. At the end of one of his dissertations she leaned her elbow on the
arm of the chair, with her cheek resting against her hand, and said:
“How very clear you make everything, Mr. Renmark.”
“Do you think so?” he said with a smile. “It’s my business, you know.”
“I think it’s a shame that girls are not allowed to go to the
university; don’t you?”
“Really, I never gave any thought to the subject, and I am not quite
prepared to say.”
“Well, I think it most unfair. The university is supported by the
Government, is it not? Then why should half of the population be shut
out from its advantages?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do, you know.”
“Why?”
“There are many reasons,” he replied evasively.
“What are they? Do you think girls could not learn, or are not as
capable of hard study as well as----”
“It isn’t that,” he interrupted; “there are plenty of girls’ schools in
the country, you know. Some very good ones in Toronto itself, for that
matter.”
“Yes; but why shouldn’t I go to the university with my brother? There
are plenty of boys’ schools, too, but the university is the university.
I suppose my father helps to support it. Why, then, should one child be
allowed to attend and the other not? It isn’t at all just.”
“It wouldn’t do,” said the professor more firmly, the more he thought
about it.
“Would you take that as a satisfying reason from one or your students?”
“What?”
“The phrase, ‘It wouldn’t do.’”
Renmark laughed.
“I’m afraid not,” he said; “but, then, I’m very exacting in class. Now,
if you want to know, why do you not ask your father?”
“Father and I have discussed the question, often, and he quite agrees
with me in thinking it unfair.”
“Oh, does he?” said Renmark, taken aback; although, when he reflected,
he realized that the father doubtless knew as little about the dangers
of the city as the daughter did.
“And what does your mother say?”
“Oh, mother thinks if a girl is a good housekeeper it is all that is
required. So you will have to give me a good reason, if there is one,
for nobody else in this house argues on your side of the question.”
“Well,” said Renmark in an embarrassed manner, “if you don’t know by the
time you are twenty-five, I’ll promise to discuss the whole subject with
you.”
Margaret sighed as she leaned back in her chair.
“Twenty-five?” she cried, adding with the unconscious veracity of youth:
“That will be seven years to wait. Thank you, but I think I’ll find out
before that time.”
“I think you will,” Renmark answered.
They were interrupted by the sudden and unannounced entrance of her
brother.
“Hello, you two!” he shouted with the rude familiarity of a boy. “It
seems the library takes a longer time to arrange than usual.”
Margaret rose with dignity.
“We are cataloguing,” she said severely.
“Oh, that’s what you call it, is it? Can I be of any assistance, or is
two company when they’re cataloguing? Have you any idea what time it
is?”
“I’m afraid I must be off,” said the professor, rising. “My companion in
camp won’t know what has become of me.”
“Oh, he’s all right!” said Henry. “He’s down at the Corners, and is
going to stay there for the meeting to-night. Young Bartlett passed a
while ago; he was getting the horses shod, and your friend went with
him. I guess Yates can take care of himself, Mr. Renmark. Say, sis,
will you go to the meeting? I’m going. Young Bartlett’s going, and so is
Kitty. Won’t you come, too, Mr. Renmark? It’s great fun.”
“Don’t talk like that about a religious gathering, Henry,” said his
sister, frowning.
“Well, that’s what it is, anyhow.”
“Is it a prayer meeting?” asked the professor, looking at the girl.
“You bet it is!” cried Henry enthusiastically, giving no one a chance
to speak but himself. “It’s a prayer meeting, and every other kind
of meeting all rolled into one. It’s a revival meeting; a protracted
meeting, that’s what it is. You had better come with us, Mr. Renmark,
and then you can see what it is like. You can walk home with Yates.”
This attractive _dénouement_ did not seem to appeal so strongly to the
professor as the boy expected, for he made no answer.
“You will come, sis; won’t you?” urged the boy.
“Are you sure Kitty is going?”
“Of course she is. You don’t think she’d miss it, do you? They’ll soon
be here, too; better go and get ready.”
“I’ll see what mother says,” replied Margaret as she left the room.
She shortly returned, dressed ready for the meeting, and the professor
concluded he would go also.