"Yes," answered the librarian; "I should not think you would be proud of it."
"I am not."
"Then why not try to change it? I might lend you my old copies—those I used myself and still use. Here they are." And she took from her desk a number of small slips of paper, on which were written, in a round hand with many flourishes and deeply-shaded lines, moral sentences, such as "He that would thrive must rise at five"; "Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day"; and others of like hilarious nature.
"Thanks," said Stephen; "I will take the copies, and try—to improve."
The librarian then began to look through the abstract, and Stephen did not break the silence.
"Would it not be a good idea for me to read it aloud?" she said, after a while. "I can always remember what I have read aloud."
"As you please," replied Stephen.
So the librarian began, in a sweet voice, with a strong Southern accent, and read aloud, with frowning forehead and evidently but half-comprehension, the chemical abstract which Stephen had prepared.
"It is very hard," she said, looking up at him, with a deep furrow between her eyebrows.
"But not too hard for a person of determined mind."