Do you think so, dad? I'm feeling wonderful today. You know the old song:
Stopper's in my hand.
That's me!
I like to hear you talk like that.
I was a little worried last night, she admitted.
What was the trouble, Mary?
I don't know. A mood, I guess. I threw it off.
Don't worry, Mary. It doesn't do any good. Just knocks the machine out of gear.
I know it does, but some days I get the blues and they stick. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. . . . It's nearly two o'clock. I'll have to go back. . . . Drawing on her cloak, she kissed her father. . . . Remember I'm going to Newark with you tonight, Othello!
An hour later she felt she couldn't bear it if she had another inquiry for A. S. M. Hutchinson or Zane Grey. She made it a point of honour to try to encourage the young patrons of the library to improve their taste in reading, but her efforts in this direction on this particular day had all proved futile. Again and again, she had suggested a volume by Sherwood Anderson or Norman Douglas, but her suggestions had been received with indifference, if not with open hostility. Patiently, for the tenth time within the hour, she recom-
