Master Gridley took out a great volume from the lower shelf,—­a folio in massive oaken covers with clasps Like prison hinges, bearing the stately colophon, white on a ground of vermilion, of Nicholas Jenson and his associates.  He opened the volume,—­paused over its blue, and scarlet initial letter,—­he turned page after page, admiring its brilliant characters, its broad, white marginal rivers, and the narrower white creek that separated the black-typed twin-columns, he turned back to the beginning and read the commendatory paragraph, “Nam ipsorum omnia fidgent tum correctione dignissima, tum cura imprimendo splendida ac miranda,” and began reading, “Incipit proemium super apparatum decretalium....” when it suddenly occurred to him that this was not exactly doing what he had undertaken to do, and he began whisking an ancient bandanna about the ears of the venerable volume.  All this time Miss Susan Posey was catching the little books by the small of their backs, pulling them out, opening them, and clapping them together, ’p-’p-’p! ’p-’p-’p! and carefully caressing all their edges with a regular professional dusting-cloth, so persuasively that they yielded up every particle that a year had drifted upon them, and came forth refreshed and rejuvenated.  This process went on for a while, until Susan had worked down among the octavos and Master Gridley had worked up among the quartos.  He had got hold of Calmet’s Dictionary, and was caught by the article Solomon, so that he forgot his occupation again.  All at once it struck him that everything was very silent,—­the ’p-’p-’p! of clapping the books had ceased, and the light rustle of Susan’s dress was no longer heard.  He looked up and saw her standing perfectly still, with a book in one hand and her duster in the other.  She was lost in thought, and by the shadow on her face and the glistening of her blue eyes he knew it was her hidden sorrow that had just come back to her.  Master Gridley shut up his book, leaving Solomon to his fate, like the worthy Benedictine he was reading, without discussing the question whether he was saved or not.

“Susan Posey, child, what is your trouble?”

Poor Susan was in the state of unstable equilibrium which the least touch upsets, and fell to crying.  It took her some time to get down the waves of emotion so that speech would live upon them.  At last it ventured out,—­showing at intervals, like the boat rising on the billow, sinking into the hollow, and climbing again into notice.

“O Mr. Grid-ley—­I can’t—­I can’t—­tell you or—­any-body—­what ’s the mat-mat-matter.  My heart will br-br-break.”

“No, no, no, child,” said Mr. Gridley, sympathetically stirred a little himself by the sight of Susan in tears and sobbing and catching her breath, “that mustn’t be, Susan Posey.  Come off the steps, Susan Posey, and stop dusting the books,—­I can finish them,—­and tell me all abort your troubles.  I will try ’to help you out of them, and I have begun to think I know how to help young people pretty well.  I have had some experience at it.”