“To the rag-man perhaps. Seriously, have we nothing of value we can spare?”
“I can think of nothing.”
“I can. O Meg, the hardest part of my suggestion is yet to come. Dr. Ely said when I named some of the books in poor father’s library that they were of undoubted value, as many were out of print. He spoke especially of the two Caxton copies, Plantin’s ‘Biblia Polyglotta,’ and Sparks’ ‘Life of Washington.’ Dear Meg, the question is: Shall we keep our treasures and starve, or in letting them go find a chance of outgrowing our poverty? I am tired of this grinding life that takes the color out of your cheeks and puts wrinkles where dimples ought to be. Much as I love the dear old books, I love hope for you and for all of us better. O Meg! it is no sacrilege to say that if our father could speak to us he would tell us to sell them. The heritage is precious; how precious to us few can guess. But, my sweet sister, your hopes and happiness are dearer to him, I know. Don’t sob so, Meg; you will break my heart. Forgive me for suggesting it. It really seems best.”
“I know it, Rosebud,” said Margaret after a long silence. “I must think about it. I cannot decide yet.”
As Margaret spoke she raised Elsie’s tearful face and kissed it tenderly. It was more difficult for Margaret to give up the books than Elsie had dreamed. They were not to her, as to Margaret, the great mine of wealth from which she had drawn the intellectual riches that were already hers, and from which she had hoped to glean a far greater abundance. Dear as they were for the associations’ sake, many of them having been successively her grandfather’s and father’s, and hallowed as they were by the thought of the dear eyes which had once delighted in their pages, this relinquishment of her ambitions seemed the most cruel hurt of all. She knew that Elsie’s suggestion was practicable; that it opened a way out of their present difficulties; but it was the slipping of the cable that bound her to the old life which, despite its hardships, had seemed so idyllic in its visions and mental attainments. If she gave up her books, what could she hope for beyond the barren drudgery of mere existence? With her books she could revel in an ideal world where the hard facts of her daily struggles could not intrude. They were indeed a heaven of remembrance and a heaven of hope to her. Where, oh, where else could she find the oasis of rest, the one little gleam of personal happiness which she had hoped might be allowed her? And yet duty, even from the mouth of Elsie, whom she had hitherto regarded as a mere child, said all too plainly that the cherished books must go. There seemed to be no other solution of the vexed question of subsistence. It was a very pale face that Margaret raised to Elsie’s anxious glance several moments later; but it was determined and calm.
“You are right, Elsie; you excel me in practicability even now. I will write at once to Dr. Ely.”
“Meg, I was cruel to you.”
“As facts are sometimes cruel. Now let us catalogue the books, that Dr. Ely may judge of them. Not another tear, Rosebud, but forward.”
A reassuring smile and a fond kiss calmed the rising storm of regret in Elsie’s heart. With protean quickness the smile so natural to her face came back, and hastily mounting the small step-ladder, she took down the books and gave title, name of author, and date of issue to Margaret to jot down. There were perhaps some eight hundred books, of which only a small portion would in these days of reprints possess an unusual interest for the bibliophilist. Among the latter were: Smellie’s “Philosophy;” Plantin’s “Biblia Polyglotta” in eight folio volumes, published in the sixteenth century; Dunton’s “Life and Errors,” 1659–1733; Caxton’s books, mostly translations from the French; Nicholl’s “Literary Anecdotes;” Sotheby’s “Handwriting of Melancthon and Luther;” Davy’s “System of Divinity,” twenty-six volumes; Dolby’s “Shakespearean Dictionary;” Ainsworth’s “Historical Novels;” Hone’s “Early Life and Conversion;” Timperly’s “Encyclopedia of Literary Anecdote;” “The Bay Psalm Book;” Adelung’s “Historical Sketch of Sanscrit Literature,” translated by Talboys; Krummacher’s “Elisha.” Aside from these somewhat rare books, the library took a wide range in history, poetry, fiction, and travels. Margaret could scarcely repress the desire to cry out once more against the sacrilege. Here was information for a life-time; here forgetfulness of the past, elysium for the future! Why must this grief be superadded to all she had borne? But with heroic effort she choked back the tears and went calmly on with her work. By the time she had finished the list and written a letter to Dr. Ely, of the Episcopal school at A——, she had put aside regret and was once more ready to look facts squarely in the face. “The first step that costs” had been taken, and never afterward to Margaret did any sorrow seem like the wrench of this one. It was with alacrity, amounting almost to cheerfulness, that she went about her task of packing the household goods, and though sometimes tears would for a moment dim her eyes and tender memories paralyze her hands, yet the serene conviction that her decision had been wisely taken seemed to hover like a nimbus of light above the sadness of the slowly-moving hours.
One morning as Margaret, with her brown locks shrouded in a wide-frilled sweeping cap, her dress hidden by a high-necked calico apron of nondescript make, stood upon a step-ladder, engaged in removing the dimity curtains from the sitting-room windows, a peremptory knock at the open door behind her caused her to turn so suddenly that the ladder tipped and threw her, with unexpected suddenness, into the arms of a dignified gentleman who stood upon the threshold. Quickly disengaging herself, she exclaimed with a laugh: