Mrs. Asmussen, who seemed to be greatly concerned for the salvation of Lilly's soul and the purity of her virgin fancy, immediately forbade her to read any of the books in the library.
"Experience with my daughters," she said, "taught me where such misconduct leads. And I will see to it that you are spared a similar fate."
So long as the work of ordering the books and the ledger continued, the temptation to disobey this mandate did not arise very frequently. But when fall came, when despite increase of custom, unoccupied hours grew more frequent, and the lamp hanging over the counter shone invitingly, when Mrs. Asmussen from day to day succumbed earlier to the effects of the medicine prescribed by one of the most eminent physicians in the city, and fell into an untroubled dream existence, curiosity and loneliness drove Lilly irresistibly on to commit the sinful deed.
The final impulse was given by a girl of about her own age, who had come one rainy October evening to exchange the first volume of a novel for the second. But the second had been loaned already, and the girl actually cried in disappointment. She couldn't bear waiting, she said. She _had_ to know how the story ended. She would _die_ if she didn't.
Lilly good-humouredly advised her to go to one of the other circulating libraries, which were said to be larger and more aristocratic. She even returned the three marks deposit for use at the other place. Happy in reawakened hopes the novel-reader left.
Lilly examined the torn and soiled volume on all sides and took a cautious peep between the covers.
"_Soll und Haben_, by Gustav Freytag," was on the title page. She recalled that even the girls of the first year high school had gone into raptures over the book. But the seamstress's daughter had had no time for reading novels.
Lilly glanced timidly at the first page, then slipped to the glass door and listened for a while to Mrs. Asmussen's peaceful breathing--now, with sails spread, she launched forth on the high seas of romance.
When she finished the volume at four o'clock in the morning she could have torn her hair in sheer desperation at having so lightly put the sequel into the hands of some stranger, who might not bring it back. She mapped out ways and means of unearthing his name and address and slipping to him secretly in order to hasten the return of the book. Then she fell asleep.