IT was Saturday afternoon. Jack had gone home to spend Sunday, and the rest of our set were away too. The Yard looked dismally deserted as I gazed across it from my window. I was fast succumbing to an attack of ennui. I had the papers; but somehow the war in the East had no longer any interest for me, and I was quite mixed in regard to the situation in France. "Dear me!" I exclaimed, "I 'll wait till I am a Sophomore and elect political economy, and meanwhile I 'll leave the Russian bear to hibernate at Plevna."

But what was to be done? I was tired of promenading Washington Street. How would the theatre do? "Lemons," - "Fanchon," - too heavy; Rignold? - bah!

No, I would go over to read in the Library. I had been here nearly two months, and had never entered the building. It's not fashionable, you know; but it would be so awkward to be questioned about it in society. I must get posted, and what better opportunity than this Saturday afternoon when everybody was away? So over I went.

"Let me see," thought I, "what shall it be? the Nation would look well, but that's dull; Goethe is all the rage, but Dante - ah! it shall be Dante. Bring me the biggest translation of Dante in the Library; my eyes are weak."

There was one table almost vacant. I selected that, for I was not pleased with the appearance of the gentlemen at the others. It was very pleasant, - so quiet, - such a subdued light. "Bless me," said I, "this is not so dull a place after all." And I was soon deep in the "Inferno."

"George!" I lifted my eyes at the sound of a lady's voice. It is a habit I have.

She was a tall brunette of dashing grace; he, an insignificant swell. They were looking at the class albums which they had piled up at the other end of my table.

"George, who is this?"

"Mr. Longfellow."

"O yes; I've heard of him. Is he dead?"

"O no; he still lives."

"And this is the O. K. I don't see you; did you belong?"

"No; I was pressed to join, but I did n't care to. Very good fellows, though."

"But that is you, surely; and yet, - it's not very good. And there is your handsome friend, Mr. H. How splendid! Now for the '76 album."

"Are all these fellows students?" she asked at length, as she closed the album and looked around the room.

She had manifested an interest in her surroundings. "How insufferably dull her companion must be," I thought, "and how I could entertain her if I only might." My gaze was riveted upon the page before me.

"They don't look at all like the Harvard men one meets in town. See this one," - she was looking at me, - "poor thing, how sore his eyes are!"

"You must understand," rejoined her companion, "that many strange beings find their way into this great University. These are all digs, - regular grinds, you know, - a miserable set."

I was glad when they were gone. They were people of little discrimination and no taste. Probably they had never heard of Dante.

I had read for some time, when I was aroused by a tap on the shoulder.

"Young man, can you tell me what those names over the alcoves mean?"

Gracious! I had never noticed them; but it would n't do to be ignorant.

"O yes, sir; they are the names of former librarians."

"But Wales, over the central case, - was he a librarian?"

"No; that is in memory of the Prince of Wales, who gave the books in the case."

"In memory" was happy. He asked no more questions.

I had read a few pages more, when my attention was again distracted by a pair of eyes, - large, deep, lustrous eyes. They walked over to the opposite table and registered. Then they surveyed the room, looking up and down, falling here and there, and withering "dig" after "dig" with their piercing gaze. At last, they too walked out; and I was surprised to see every man straightway leave his seat to seek the name of the fair visitor. They crowded about the book, and I heard a disappointed voice say, "Keokuk, Iowa." It was a clear case of "Go West, young man."

There was no rest for me after this. Gentlemen in squeaky boots patrolled the room; other gentlemen came in with parties of ladies, and all talked in hoarse whispers which echoed through the hall; men with arms full of books crossed and recrossed the room with heavy tread; proctors, accompanied by sisters and cousins, helped to make things hideous; the nymphs of the Library flitted about the alcoves overhead, and cast furtive glances down upon the busy bookworms. My head began to swim; the page grew blurred.

"My son, don't you want to show us round the Library? I 'll give you a quarter."

"I am not the Librarian, sir. You will find him in the adjoining room."

I left the Dante lying open on the table. It may be there still. I shall never go to see.