(In 1919 this story became Chapter 03 of The Haunted Bookshop. "On the return of a book" was previously published in Life magazine (1918-dec-05))

      The first pipe after breakfast is a rite of importance to seasoned smokers, and Roger Mifflin, the now well-known bookseller on Gissing Street, applied the flame to the bowl as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Mifflin knew that he had exceptional matters on hand, for he had reverently opened a tin of Craven Mixture, the blend made famous by J. M. Barrie in "My Lady Nicotine", as soon as he had finished his coffee. Anything mentioned in a good book was sacred to Roger, and he always smoked Craven when he felt he needed inspiration. It is regrettable to have to state that his poems, written under a blue cloud of that potent tobacco, had never found a publisher. But not even Barrie has written poems, so perhaps the fault was in the tobacco rather than in Roger.

      He blew a great gush of strong gray reek that eddied behind him as he ran up the flight, his mind eagerly meditating the congenial task of arranging the little spare-room for the coming employee. For this was the day when Miss Titania Chapman, daughter of Mr. Chapman of the Daintybits Corporation, was coming to work in the Haunted Bookshop, to learn how to sell books.

      Then, at the top of the stairs, he found that his pipe had already gone out. "What with filling my pipe and emptying it, lighting it and relighting it", he thought, "I don't seem to get much time for the serious concerns of life. Come to think of it, smoking and washing dishes and listening to other people talk take most of life anyway."

      This theory rather pleased him, so he ran downstairs again to tell it to Mrs. Miffin.

      "Go along and get that room fixed up", she said, "and don't try to palm off any bogus doctrines on me so early in the morning. Housewives have no time for philosophy after breakfast."

      Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of preparing the guest-room for the new assistant. It was a small chamber at the back of the second story, opening onto a narrow passage that connected through a door with the gallery of the bookshop. Two small windows commanded a view of the modest roofs of that quarter of Brooklyn — roofs that conceal so many brave hearts, so many baby-carriages, and so many cups of bad coffee.

      Over these non-committal summits the bright eye of the bookseller, as he tacked up the freshly ironed muslin curtains Mrs. Mifflin had provided, could discern a glimpse of the bay and the leviathan ferries that link Staten Island with civilization. "Just touch of romance in the outlook", he thought to himself. "It will suffice to keep a blasé young girl aware of the excitements of existence."

      The room, as might be expected in a house presided over by Helen Miffin, was in perfect order to receive any S occupant. But Roger had volunteered to psychologize it in such a fashion as (he thought) would convey favorable influences to the misguided young spirit that was to be its tenant. Incurable idealist, he had taken quite gravely his responsibility as landlord and employer of Mr. Chapman's daughter. No chambered nautilus was to have better opportunities to expand the tender mansions of its soul.

      Beside the bed was a book-shelf with a reading lamp. The problem Roger was discussing was what books and pictures might be the best preachers to this congregation of one. To Mrs. Mifflin's secret amusement he had taken down the picture of Sir Galahad which he had once hung there, because as he said, "if Galahad were living today he would be a bookseller". "We don't want her feasting her imagination on young Galahads", he had remarked at breakfast. "That way lies premature matrimony. What I want to do is put up in her room one or two pictures representing actual men who were so delightful in their day that all the young men she is likely to see now will seem tepid and prehensile. Thus she will become disgusted with the present generation of youths, and there will be some chance of her really putting her mind on the book business."

      Accordingly he had spent some time in going through a bin where he kept photos and drawings of authors that the publishers' "publicity men" were always showering upon him. After some thought he discarded promising engravings of Harold Bell Wright, Stephen Leacock, and Coningsby Dawson, choosing pictures of Shelley, Anthony Trollope, Stevenson, and Robert Burns. Then, after further meditation, he decided that neither helley nor Burns would quite do for a young girl's room, and set them aside in favor of a portrait of Samuel Butler. To these he added a framed text that he was very fond of and had hung over his desk. He had once clipped it from a copy of "Life" and found much pleasure in it. It runs thus:

ON THE RETURN OF A BOOK Lent to a Friend I  GIVE humble and hearty thanks for the safe return of this book which, having endured the perils of my friend's bookcase and the bookcases of my friend's friends, now returns to me in reasonably good condition. I  GIVE humble and hearty thanks that my friend did not see fit to give this book to his infant as a plaything, nor use it as an ash-tray for his burning cigar, nor as a teething ring for his mastiff. WHEN I lent this book I deemed it as lost; I was resigned to the bitterness of the long parting: I never thought to look upon its pages again. BUT now that my book is come back to me, I rejoice and am exceeding glad! Bring hither the fatted morocco and let us rebind the volume and set it on the shelf of honour: for this my book was lent, and is returned again. PRESENTLY, therefore, I may return some of the books that I myself have borrowed.

      "There!" he thought. "That will convey to her the first element of book morality."

      These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethought himself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf.

      This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest-room are of a soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This school advises "The Wealth of Nations", "Rome Under the Cæsars", "The Statesman's Year Book", certain novels of Henry James, and "The Letters of Queen Victoria" (in four volumes). It is plausibly contended that books of this nature cannot be read (late at night) for more than a few minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information that may recur to the reader as he is brushing his teeth the next morning.

      Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short-stories, volumes of pithy ancedote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one awake for a while, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable by these pundits. This class of reading comprises O. Henry, Bret Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, W. W. Jacobs, Daudet, de Maupassant, and possibly even "On a Slow Train Through Arkansas", that grievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, Mr. Thomas W. Jackson, has said, "It will sell forever, and a thousand years afterward". To this might be added another of Mr. Jackson's onslaughts on the human intelligence called, "I'm From Texas, You Can't Steer Me". Of this book the author has said, "It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can't beat it". There are other books by Mr. Jackson, whose titles escape memory, whereof he has said, "They are a dynamite for sorrow". Nothing used to irritate Roger more than to have someone come into his shop and ask for copies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the famous writer, once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of "On a Slow Train Through Arkansas" sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to the trade as "dove-colored ooze". But that is apart from the story.

      To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania's book-shelf Roger devoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Mrs. Mifflin called him to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting oblivious on the guest-room floor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had carried upstairs for a final culling. "It will be great privilege", he said to himself, "to have a young mind to experiment with. Now my wife, delightful creature though she is, was — well, distinctly mature when I had the good fortune to meet her. I have never been able properly to supervise her mental processes. this Chapman girl will come to us still plastic. Who knows? She may become a great poet or writer. A bookshop has been the starting point of many a fine career. John Masefield became a poet because he found a copy of Chaucer in a bookshop in Yonkers. Lord, Brooklyn ought to be able to turn out as great a poet as Yonkers."

      "I will test her" (his thoughts continued) "by the books I put here. By noting which of them she responds to, I will know how to proceed. It might be worth while to shut up the shop one day a week in order to give her some brief talks on literature. Delightful! Let me see, a little series of lectures on the development of the English novel, beginning with 'Tom Jones' — hum, that would hardly do! Well, I have always longed to be a teacher; this looks like a chance to begin. We might invite some of the neighbors to come in once a week, and start a little academy. Causeries du lundi, in fact! I may yet be the Sainte-Beuve of Brooklyn."

      Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings — "This remarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under the unassuming existence of a second-hand bookseller, is now recognized as the —"

      "Roger!" called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs; "front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of 'Foamy Stories'."

      After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger returned to his meditation. "First of all", he mused, "her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans. It's a remarkable name for the daughter of a wholesale grocer. Suppose we begin the list with that book called 'Corn from Olde Fieldes', which has a lot of delightful Elizabethan lyrics in it. Then Keats, I guess: every young person ought to shiver over 'The Eve of St. Agnes', on a bright cold winter evening. 'Over Bemerton's' certainly, because it's a bookshop story. Eugene Field's 'Tribune Primer' to try out her sense of humor. And some of Don Marquis's 'Prefaces' for the same reason. I'll go down and get the scrap-book."

      It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis, the humorist of the New York "Eve ning Sun". Mr. Marquis lives in Brooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was the most eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of Walt Whitman. Particularly he enjoyed Mr. Marquis's whimsical prefaces (to "A Book of Fishhooks", etc.), and had pasted them into a scrap-book with which he frequently regaled himself. This bulky tome he now brought out from the grotto by his desk where his special treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard him utter shrill screams of laughter.

      "What on earth is it?" she asked.

      "Don Marquis", he said, and began to read aloud:

Down in a wine vault underneath the city Two old men were sitting, they were drinking booze; Torn were their garments, hair and beards were gritty, One had an overcoat but hardly any shoes —

      "What is there funny in that?" said Helen. "I think it's very low."

      "Wait a minute", cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue.

      "No more, thank you", said his wife. "There ought to be a fine for using the meter of 'Love in the Valley' that way. I'm going out to market, so if the bell rings you'll have to answer it."

      Roger added the Marquis scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went on browsing over the volumes he had collected.

      "'The Nigger of the Narcissus'", he said to himself, "for even if she doesn't read the story perhaps she'll read the preface, which not marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens's 'Christmas Stories' to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies. Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many of them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortal lodgings? 'The Notebooks of Samuel Butler', just to give her a little intellectual jazz. 'The Wrong Box', because it's the best farce in the language. "Travels with a Donkey', to show her what good writing is like. 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse' to give her a sense of pity for human woes — wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of Mr. Mosher's catalogues: fine! they'll show her the true spirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. 'Walking-Stick Papers' — yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound file of "The Publishers' Weekly' to give her a smack of trade matters. "Jo's Boys' in case she needs a little relaxation. 'The Lays of Ancient Rome' and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if they give them 'The Lays' to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of '76. And now we'll be exceptionally subtle: we'll stick in a Robert Chambers to see if she falls for it."

      He viewed the shelf with pride. "Not bad", he said to himself. "I'll just add this Leonard Merrick, 'Whispers about Women', to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I'll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it."

      With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to see what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each. "Very nice!" he remarked. "Very nice, indeed. About the only thing missing is an ash-tray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them, that'll be the first thing she'll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra Pound's poems. I do hope she's not what Helen calls a bolshevixen."

      There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne Streets early that afternoon. A chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that emerged from depths of lilac-colored upholstery.

      "Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?"

      "This is the bitter parting", replied Miss Titania. "I don't want you to know my address, Edwards. Some of my crazy friends might worm it out of you, and I don't want them coming down and bothering me. I'm going to be very busy with literature. I'll walk the rest of the way."

      Edwards saluted with a subfacial grin — he worshipped the original young heiress — and returned to his wheel.

      "There's one thing I want you to do for me", said Titania. "Call up my father and tell him I'm on the job."

      "Yes, miss," said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into a government motor-truck if she had ordered it.

      Miss Chapman's small gloved hand descended into an interesting purse that was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew out a nickel — it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and attractive looking nickel — and handed it gravely to her charioteer. Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certain dignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard.

      Titania turned up Gissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boy cried, "Carry your bag, lady?" and she was about to agree, but then remembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved him away. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did not attempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the few blocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose.

      Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached Clemens Place, would have seen that she was pleasantly tailored in genial tweeds; that her small brown boots were matter. sheltered by spats of that pale tan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that her shoulders were carrying a thick and fluffy fur of the kind described in advertisements as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. This observer might also, if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of many autographed stubs in a check-book. The general impression that he would have retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be "expensive, but worth the expense".

      It is more likely, however, that this student of phenomena would have continued along Gissing Street to the next corner, that of Hazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake the lady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise, he would pass her on the right side, where her tilted bonnet permitted a wider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chin belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist watch that might be pardonably excused, in its exhilarating career, for beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch of such violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reserve themselves for winter and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue.

      Whatever the errand of this spectator, he would by now feel an impulse to continue along Gissing Street a few paces further. Then, with calculated innocence, he would halt half-way up the block that leads to the Wordsworth Avenue L, and look backward with carefully simulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten With apparently unseeing eye he would scan the bright pedestrian, and catch the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He would see a small, resolute face, rather vivacious, yet with a quaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would note cheeks lit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He would certainly note the delicate contrast of the fur of the wild nutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, he would see this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings, and run down some steps into a rather dingy second-hand bookshop. He would go about his affairs with a new and surprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklyn under His especial care.

      Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of the Ritz-Carlton lobbies, was agreeably surprised by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.

      "Is this Mr. Mifflin?" she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky corner.

      "Miss Chapman?" he replied, taking her bag. "Helen!" he called. "Here's Miss Titania."

      She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it's adorable of you to take me in", she said. "Dad has told me so much about you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literatureI want to know all about it."

      "And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in the world, named after Botticelli or somebody. I've brought him a present. It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!"

      Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own fashion.

      "Well, my dear", said Mrs. Mifflin, "we are delighted to see you. I hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a hard man to get along with."

      "Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. "I mean, I'm sure I shall be happy! You mustn't believe a word of what Dad says about me. I'm crazy about books. I don't see how you can bear to sell them. I'll be awfully careful not to sell any of the ones you're really fond of. I brought these violets for you, Mrs. Mifflin."

      "How perfectly sweet of you", said Helen, captivated already. "Come along, we'll put them right in water. I'll show you your room."

      Roger heard them moving about overhead, and wondered whether the picture of Samuel Butler was really appropriate. It suddenly occurred to him that the shop was rather a dingy place for a young girl. "I wish I had thought to get in a cash register", he mused. "She'll think I'm terribly unbusinesslike."

      "Now", said Mrs. Miffin, as she and Titania came downstairs again, "I'm making some pastry, so I'm going to turn you over to your employer. He can show you round the shop and tell you where all the books are."

      "Before we begin", said Titania, "just let me give Bock his present." She showed a large package of tissue paper and, unwinding innumerable layers, finally disclosed a stalwart bone. "I was lunching at Sherry's, and I made the head waiter give me this. He was awfully amused."

      "Come along into the kitchen and give it to him", said Helen. "He'll be your friend for life."

      "What an adorable kennel!" cried Titania, when she saw the remodeled packing-case that served Bock as a retreat. The bookseller's ingenious carpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, with the word READING-ROOM over the door; and he had painted imitation bookshelves along the interior.

      "You'll get used to Mr. Mifflin after a while", said Helen amusedly. "He spent all one winter getting that kennel fixed to his liking. You might have thought he was going to live in it instead of Bock. All the titles that he painted in there are books that have dogs in them, and a lot of them he made up."

      Titania insisted on getting down to peer inside. Bock was much flattered at this attention from the new planet that had swum into his kennel.

      "Gracious!" she said, "here's "The Rubaiyat of Omar Canine'. I do think that's clever!"

      "Oh, there are a lot more", said Helen. "The works of Bonar Law, and Bohn's 'Classics', and 'Catechisms on Dogma' and goodness knows what. If Roger paid half as much attention to business as he does to jokes of that sort, we'd be rich. Now, you run along and have a look at the shop."

      Titania found the bookseller at his desk. He had vowed not to mention the bedroom shelf until she made some unsolicited comment, but he could not resist the temptation.

      "What did you think of the books I put in your room ?" he asked.

      "In my room?" said Titania innocently. "Dear me, I never noticed them!"

(THE END)

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