W

HEN the newspaper men gath

ered in convention to jolly each other and take counsel on "How to write down to the popular taste," it seemed in some ways an appropriate thing that Prof. Seargent, the energetic young president of the Luke Channing University, Rifflesville, Pa., should be asked to address them at the banquet. In the first place, Russell T. Seargent on leaving college had tried his hand at the newspaper business, and, much to the surprise of old stagers therein, had succeeded. To their further surprise, he had quit, after three years' experience, and in the midst of success, to take charge of an academy for boys at Riffles ville. It did seem a queer thing to do, but the academy prospered under his direction, and some of his methods were copied here and there by progressive institutions of a similar kind. Every one knows the recent history of Prof. Seargent, Mr. Channing and the Rifflesville Academy, and how through successive endowments from one man and under the wise management of another the little college was transformed into a university. Only a few weeks before the convention of which I speak the papers had given a full account of the nearly completed library, which was to be one of the central features of the institution. There had also been established at the University, in accord with the President's personal wish, a department of special instruction in journalism. The papers

handled this latter item of news vaguely and evidently classed it with the seaserpent and the air-ship, but this nevertheless was the immediate cause of the committee's inviting Prof. Seargent all the way from Pennsylvania to make an address at the Press Convention banquet in that western city where our scene is now laid.

The Professor had finished his speech. He had interspersed the usual number of anecdotes. His jokes had been well received, his local allusions deeply appreciated and loudly applauded by the home delegation of "boys" at the left-hand table. He had spoken of the necessity of education in a democracy. He had named the two great purveyors of knowledge, the newspaper and the school. The public library, he said, now occupied a third place, and might soon push on to the second or the first. The problem before each of these great agencies was practically the same: What shall we print? What shall we teach? What books shall we provide? These were the questions asked. The way to their solution lay in the answer to that other question, What is news? All novelties were not news. Some very old things were news now and forever. In general it might be said that news was the mental food needed and demanded by men at any particular time. There were divisions of the field of labor, and neither of the great educational agencies might displace the others; but their objects were.

identical, and news, news as he had defined it, the newspaper, the school and the library should make it their business to supply. His eloquent peroration on the mission and the power of the popular press was liberally cheered.

Other speeches followed, and more were to come, but the Professor had grown absent-minded. The talk and laughter continued, the glasses clinked, the waiters sped here and there with matches and fresh cigars; but the Professor wore his best smile and stared straight ahead. He was thinking of the afternoon reception tendered him by the City University, of the many local celebrities whose names he had forgotten, and of the young lady, not too young, with whom he had eaten his ice-cream, and whose image formed the one bright spot against a rather monotonous background. He had failed to catch her name and would soon forget her.

Some one at the left-hand table propounded a conundrum: "Why do all reporters go to heaven?" Before an answer could be made a young fellow opposite said, "Ask Ethel Carradine," and then the whole table took it up, and the words "Ask Ethel Carradine" were repeated again and again, gleefully, amid much laughter, until, moved by a sudden impulse, they all stopped short, as though conscious of an impropriety. Prof. Seargent awoke from his brief revery. "Who is Ethel Carradine?" he asked, and one of the boys had to come. over and explain that Miss Carradine was a young lady assistant at the library, known socially to some of the reporters and much relied upon professionally by them all; she had so often supplied them with just the right quantity of scientific or historical knowledge, and was so infallible in the matter of rapid research that when any question was put the answer to which was not immediately at hand, it had become a habit with them to say, "Ask Ethel Carradine."

"And is she indeed so expert?"

inquired the Professor. "Just as I say," answered the reporter. "Ask her about Cain's wife and she will give you three references offhand and bring you a fourth and more full account before you can get out your pad." "If that is so," said the Professor, "she may be just the kind of person we want in charge of our library."

Professor Seargent left for home that night, but not until he had set on foot inquiries in regard to the professional record of Miss Carradine. He learned that her father was dead; that she lived with her mother and brother; that her brother was a young architect, the same whose beautiful competitive plans for the new City Hospital had been marked "Firm not responsible" and thrown out. These were not exactly points of her professional record. He learned also that her time of library training, including a term at Albany, footed up to-well, it is unnecessary, though it would not be at all invidious, to specify just how many years. Miss Carradine was certainly not in her teens; and when she accepted the position of librarian at the Luke Channing University, and left her home to take up a difficult work in a strange place, her friends felt that she was quite able to take care of herself.

When she arrived in Rifflesville Prof. Seargent met her at the train. It was no doubt very kind of him to think of it, as she more than once remarked, but the fact is he had a devouring curiosity to see her. The words "Ask Ethel Carradine" had been ringing in his head ever since the night of the banquet; he couldn't be rid of them, and he thought perhaps an early sight of her would put an end to the annoyance. He certainly did not expect to see in the new librarian of the University his all-but-forgotten partner of the day-reception and the ice

cream.

The professor found the library fully as useful as he had anticipated. His office was an executive one, and study at his desk was subject to many interruptions;

his roomy bachelor's mansion, while well. supplied with reading matter, was lacking in books of reference; and thus it came about that he spent some time almost every day in the library, where Miss Carradine had so systematized things that his work was greatly facilitated. Miss Carradine had ingratiated herself very rapidly with large numbers of the students by bringing them exactly what books and references they needed and hoping these, the best she could find, would be of some use. Her affable, dignified manners moreover made friends for her among all those with whom she came in contact in the little university town. And still Prof. Seargent-who was called President Seargent only by the newspapers, and whom, when he joined. them at hand ball, the boys addressed familiarly as Professor still Prof. Seargent was troubled with the strange and frequent recurrence of that proverbial catch-phrase of the young reporters, "Ask Ethel Carradine." It haunted him continually. He had read the story of "Punch, brothers, punch with care," and he knew the only certain means of relief was to pass the phrase on to a friend or an enemy. Unfortunately the Professor had not at that time a friend or enemy with whom on second thought he cared to negotiate such a transfer.

And so things went from bad to worse. The Professor had never let church going degenerate into a habit, but he went frequently and had been hitherto an attentive listener and faithful giver of responses. Now, however, his mind wandered. It was really a shame. "Who hath believed our report?" read the pastor, "and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?" The Professor, though he had the book in his hand, could think of nothing but "Ask Ethel Carradine." He now began to be worried and to look about for some means of cure. tried long walks into the country. Once, coming home from an excursion of this

He

kind, he overtook Miss Carradine. She also had been for a walk. The same thing happened several times, and once he went with her by appointment. The exercise was pleasant and beneficial but it did not seem to affect his special complaint. He came at length to the conclusion that his malady was one pertaining strictly to the brain.

I regret to say that the Professor was driven for a time to the excessive use of narcotics, but through the smoke of his cigars the old words came to his ears again, dreamily, softly, yet with all their haunting power. "What's to be done now?" he thought to himself, and the answer came pat: "Ask Ethel Carradine." He did, in a joking way, tell her a part of his trouble, and for just one moment she was greatly confused. Then she laughed freely and told him he was studying too hard. He spent too much time over reference books, and she recommended light reading and a little pleasure trip. The Professor had not noticed her momentary embarrassment.

The head of a new institution such as the Luke Channing University could not think of a pleasure trip at this time of year, but Prof. Seargent determined that on his next flying visit to Philadelphia he would consult a physician about his case. There were physicians in the faculty at Rifflesville, but between them and the President there could have been no mention of a fee, and he was sensitive in the matter and did not wish to impose upon them. He went therefore to an old acquaintance, an eminent medical scientist in the city, and, with certain reservations, described his ailment. The doctor was a very solemn appearing man whose eyes on rare occasions had a peculiar twinkle. He looked the Professor over and then, rubbing his under lip slowly, said: "Seargent, you have been working for twenty years; you know how to work and don't know much else. It isn't

work that's killing you. Nevertheless you are in a bad way, and I order you to