“But when your heart is tired and dumb, your soul has need of ease,There’s none like the quiet folk who wait in libraries–The counselors who never change, the friends who never go,The old books, the dear books that understand and know!”

“Wallis," said his master dreamily when his man appeared again, "I want some more real clothes. Tired of sleeping-suits. Get me some, please. Good night.”

“It was four o'clock of a stickily wet Saturday. As long as it is anything from Monday to Friday the average library attendant goes around thanking her stars she isn't a school-teacher; but the last day of the week, when the rest of the world is having its relaxing Saturday off and coming to gloat over you as it acquires its Sunday-reading best seller, if you work in a library you begin just at noon to wish devoutly that you'd taken up scrubbing-by-the-day, or hack-driving, or porch-climbing or- anything on earth that gave you a weekly half-holiday!”

“And the way you lost your temper!" went on Wallis enthusiastically. "Oh, Mr. Allan, it was beautiful! You haven't been more than to say snarly since the accident! It was so like the way you used to throw hair-brushes--”

“Pain has been and grief enough and bitterness and crying,Sharp ways and stony ways I think it was she trod;But all there is to see now is a white bird flying,Whose blood-stained wings go circling high—circling up to God!”

“He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!”

“He looked like a young Crusader on a tomb. That was Phyllis's first impression of Allan Harrington.”