"When?"
"Now—at once—as soon as my books can be brought from the house and the others bought in the city."
"And I," Grace added, "am to be a librarian, and to select the new books. I remember well the names of all the most popular books in the public library of the little town I was born in, and all the best—never mind the worst—that my fellow-shopgirls used to read, and I know the second-hand bookshops in New York, where many good books may be had at a quarter of their original price; so if a hundred dollars is to be spent, I'll engage to get three or four hundred volumes, instead of two hundred. Meanwhile, don't either of you men breathe a word of Caleb's project, until the books are here; otherwise some other merchant may get ahead of us."
"That's sound business sense," said Caleb, "but I wish you hadn't—I mean I wish one of us had said it instead of you."
"Oh, Caleb! Do you think that my interest in the business of the store is making me sordid—mercenary—grasping?"
"Well, I never saw any signs of it before, but—"
"Nor have you seen them to-day. You'll have to take to eye-glasses, Caleb, if only in justice to me. The only reason I don't wish any one else to start the library is that I think the laborer is worthy of his hire. You were the laborer—that is, you devised the plan,—and I wouldn't for anything have you deprived of your pay, which will consist of your pleasure at seeing your old acquaintances supplied with good reading matter. Honor to whom honor is due. Now do you understand?"
Caleb's small gray face grew rosy, albeit a bit sheepish, and to hide it, he tiptoed over to Philip, who was staring into vacancy, apparently in search of something, and said:—
"As I b'lieve I've said before, ain't she a peeler?"
"Yes; oh, yes," Philip answered mechanically.