“Or Salome Shepard Hall?” put in Mrs. Soule’s voice, for she felt that it would be like the rest of her niece’s folly to have her name carved in stone up there.
“Auntie!” exclaimed Salome reprovingly; then, turning to Geoffrey Burnham—“Shepard Hall might have meant me, or it might have meant my father, or the whole race of us in general. This building is a memorial to Newbern Shepard, not to his family. How do you like the design of the façade?”
The building was of red brick, with massive trimmings of red sandstone, and was substantial and useful in general appearance, rather than ornate.
“Ten times as expensive as you needed,” was her aunt’s comment.
“Yes,” answered Burnham, to whom the remark was directed. “A cheap, wooden building would have answered the purpose, I should say.”
“Perhaps,” laughed Salome; “but I am not putting up wooden monuments to my grandfather’s memory. Besides, you don’t know my purpose, yet.”
“Something quixotic and unnecessary, I’m afraid, my dear,” answered Mrs. Soule.
Salome did not answer but led the way up the stairway, and unlocked the heavy doors These opened into a vestibule leading into a large room fitted up with bookcases and tables.
“This is the library,” said she. “Now, see the two reading-rooms, one on each side. One is for the girls, and one for the young men.”
They passed out into the one designed for the girls,—a pleasant airy room with plenty of light and space. The walls were tinted and the woodwork was in the natural finish. Nothing in the way of furnishing had, of course, been done. Beyond the reading-room was another large class-room, and opening from it were several smaller ones. These all occupied one wing of the new building.