The Rev. Theron Ware had entertained rather strong views on this subject, and that only a week or two ago.  One of his first acquaintances in Octavius had been the owner of the principal book-store in the place—­a gentle and bald old man who produced the complete impression of a bibliophile upon what the slightest investigation showed to be only a meagre acquaintance with publishers’ circulars.  But at least he had the air of loving his business, and the young minister had enjoyed a long talk with, or rather, at him.  Out of this talk had come the information that the store was losing money.  Not even the stationery department now showed a profit worth mentioning.  When Octavius had contained only five thousand inhabitants, it boasted four book-stores, two of them good ones.  Now, with a population more than doubled, only these latter two survived, and they must soon go to the wall.  The reason?  It was in a nutshell.  A book which sold at retail for one dollar and a half cost the bookseller ninety cents.  If it was at all a popular book, “Thurston’s” advertised it at eighty-nine cents—­and in any case at a profit of only two or three cents.  Of course it was done to widen the establishment’s patronage—­to bring people into the store.  Equally of course, it was destroying the book business and debauching the reading tastes of the community.  Without the profits from the light and ephemeral popular literature of the season, the book-store proper could not keep up its stock of more solid works, and indeed could not long keep open at all.  On the other hand, “Thurston’s” dealt with nothing save the demand of the moment, and offered only the books which were the talk of the week.  Thus, in plain words, the book trade was going to the dogs, and it was the same with pretty nearly every other trade.

Theron was indignant at this, and on his return home told Alice that he desired her to make no purchases whatever at “Thurston’s.”  He even resolved to preach a sermon on the subject of the modern idea of admiring the great for crushing the small, and sketched out some notes for it which he thought solved the problem of flaying the local abuse without mentioning it by name.  They had lain on his desk now for ten days or more, and on only the previous Friday he had speculated upon using them that coming Sunday.

On this bright and cheerful Tuesday morning he walked with a blithe step unhesitatingly down the main street to “Thurston’s,” and entered without any show of repugnance the door next to the window wherein, flanked by dangling banjos and key-bugles built in pyramids, was displayed the sign, “Pianos on the Instalment Plan.”

He was recognized by some responsible persons, and treated with distinguished deference.  They were charmed with the intelligence that he desired a piano, and fascinated by his wish to pay for it only a little at a time.  They had special terms for clergymen, and made him feel as if these were being extended to him on a silver charger by kneeling admirers.