"I was not able to begin my work so early as usual this morning." "Not feeling well ?" he said, anxiously, and with a glance at her face which, he had noticed, was paler than usual.

"I suppose you've got the Reading-Room headache.

Everybody gets it; it's the general stuffiness of the place.

They can't help it--the officials, I mean; they've tried all sorts of dodges for ventilation; it's better than it used to be; but it's still crammed full of headache." "No; I've been worried this morning," said Celia, more to herself than to him.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said, in a voice full of a boy's ready sympathy.
"Look here! Is it anything I can help you with?
I mean----" He grew red, and stammered.

"Oh, of course, you'll laugh; and it's like my cheek, but--you helped me, you know--and we're brothers and sisters in misfortune, working on the same treadmill--I'd do anything for you--it would be a pleasure----" Celia sighed as she smiled, and wondered idly how he would respond if she said, "Well, find a man for me, a man whose name I don't know, to whose whereabouts I have not the slightest clue." She shook her head.
"It is very good of you," she said; "but you could not help me; no one could." "I am sorry," he murmured.