It must not be supposed, however, that the responsibilities of Hillsboro for the library ended with the triumphant counting out of the money after the entertainment.  This sum, the only actual cash ever handled by the committee, was exclusively devoted to the purchase of new books.  It was the pride of the village that everything else was cared for without price, by their own enterprise, public spirit, and ingenuity.  When the books, had overflowed the wing of Deacon Bradlaugh’s house, back in 1869, they were given free lodging in the rooms of the then newly established and flourishing Post of the G.A.R.  In 1896 they burst from this chrysalis into the whole lower floor of the town hall, newly done over for the purpose.  From their shelves here the books looked down benignly on church suppers and sociables, and even an occasional dance.  It was the center of village life, the big, low-ceilinged room, its windows curtained with white muslin, its walls bright with fresh paper and colored pictures, like any sitting-room in a village home.  The firewood was contributed, a load apiece, by the farmers of the country about, and the oil for the lamps was the common gift of the three grocery-stores.  There was no carpet, but bright-colored rag rugs lay about on the bare floor, and it was a point of honor with the Ladies’ Aid Society of the church to keep these renewed.

The expense of a librarian’s salary was obviated by the expedient of having no librarian.  The ladies of Hillsboro took turns in presiding over the librarian’s table, each one’s day coming about once in three weeks.  “Library Day” was as fixed an institution in Hillsboro as “wash day,” and there was not a busy housewife who did not look forward to the long quiet morning spent in dusting and caring for the worn old books, which were like the faces of friends to her, familiar from childhood.  The afternoon and evening were more animated, since the library had become a sort of common meeting-ground.  The big, cheerful, sunlighted room full of grown-ups and children, talking together, even laughing out loud at times, did not look like any sophisticated idea of a library, for Hillsboro was as benighted on the subject of the need for silence in a reading-room as on all other up-to-date library theories.  If you were so weak-nerved and sickly that the noise kept you from reading, you could take your book, go into Elzaphan Hall’s room and shut the door, or you could take your book and go home, but you could not object to people being sociable.

Elzaphan Hall was the janitor, and the town’s only pauper.  He was an old G.A.R. man who had come back from the war minus an arm and a foot, and otherwise so shattered that steady work was impossible.  In order not to wound him by making him feel that he was dependent on public charity, it had been at once settled that he should keep the fire going in the library, scrub the floor, and keep the room clean in return for his food and lodging.  He “boarded