tern of ironwork. All around the walls stood bookcases, filled
with a large collection of books, the greater proportion of them of an
age suggestive, to the inexperienced eye, of worthlessness, to the more
discerning, of value. An antique desk and a few straight-backed chairs
were all the other furnishings of the room, but of these it needed none.
Even in its dust-covered condition it was a room to command respectful
consideration.

As Jarvis came in, Max was studying the rows of books. He turned about
with a small calf-bound volume in his hand, and his eye fell on
Jarvis, entering.

"Jarve," he exclaimed, "I believe this is treasure-trove, sure enough! If
this isn't a 'first edition,' I'll eat the book, covers and all!"

Jarvis hurried to his side. He took the book, examined the fly-leaf, and
turned its pages. His eyes lighted with interest. "Of course it is!" he
declared. "And by the looks of them, there are plenty more. How on earth
do they come to be here? This is a gold mine that beats the mahogany
sideboard out of sight."

"It's more than I know. Uncle Maxwell was no book-lover, as far as I've
ever heard. Perhaps Uncle Tim can tell, though he's on mother's side, and
never was here much."

Bob's eyes were round with delight. He did not know much about books, but
the flush on Sally's cheeks and the excitement in Max's voice were enough
for him. He could not resist giving his elder brother a rap on the back.

"How about the dead beetles now, Max?" he exulted.

Alec was poking in the pigeon-holes of the desk. There were no papers to
be found except one bundle of letters, yellow with age. In one of the
drawers, there were a few old daguerreo-types in velvet cases and a
yellowed meer-schaum pipe.

"'Eliphalet Lane, Esquire,'" read Sally, from the addresses on the
letters, which were written on the folded outer sheet of the letters
themselves. "Why, I know who he was. He was Uncle Maxwell's elder
brother. He lived with them all his life. He died before we were born,
but I've heard father tell about him. He was a queer old man when father
was a boy. This must be his collection."

"And Uncle Maxwell didn't think enough of it to take it to town with
him--just locked it up and left it." This was Max's theory. "Uncle
Maxwell knew nothing about books and cared less; he was all for
business."

"Luckily for you. This must be worth a good deal, if you care to sell
it," said Jarvis, who, close by one of the odd windows