bottle pressed against herself, she hoped she would have the opportunity for another such conversation with Professor Bridwell. 

 Gretchen's cart of books was extraordinarily loaded. Rather than push it slowly between the stacks as she reshelved books, she stopped the cart at the end of each row and carried a few books at a time to their proper places. The library was more quiet than usual, and despite the overwhelming number of books she had to replace that day she worked rather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudly that any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enough for her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed it to the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing those whose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly, watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it, lamenting that she had too little time that day—there could be no stolen moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes to reach an upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of a footfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quick shove. 

 "Good day, Miss Haviland." 

 Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as she returned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes, she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" she exclaimed. 

 "Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchen looked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; she had left it precariously tottering on the edge.  "You almost lost one, Miss Haviland." 

 "Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more securely to her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with her wool skirt swinging about her ankles.  "Is there a book I can help you find?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl. 

 "Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word.  "I've not come in a—a professional capacity at all today." 

 "Oh?"  Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her free hand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth. 

 "The other evening—at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her. "Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..." 

 "Yes?"  Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another 

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