ting for Saturday was planned, that night, and Mrs. Fabian and
Nancy were to manage the details for the girls.

"We will choose a likely country-side for our first trial," remarked Mrs.
Fabian, looking at her husband for advice.

"That's hard sense," laughed he. "But where is such a spot?"

"Somewhere in New England," ventured Nancy.

"That's as ambiguous as 'Somewhere in France,'" retorted Polly.

"Not when you consider that New England begins just the other side of the
city-line of Portchester," said Mr. Fabian.

"But there are no antiques to be found in Rye, Portchester or Greenwich,
in these days of amateur collectors hunting over those sections,"
remarked Mrs. Fabian.

"You are not limited to those nearby towns; but you can travel fifty
miles in the inland sections in a short time, and stop at simple little
farm-houses to inquire, as we did this summer while touring England. I
wager you'll come home with enough trophies of war to start you off
again, in a day or two," explained Mr. Fabian.

On Saturday morning, Mrs. Fabian packed an auto-kit with delectable
sandwiches, cakes and other dainties, and the party of amateur collectors
started out on their quest. The chauffeur smiled at their eagerness to
arrive at some place on the Boston Post Road that might suggest that it
led to their Mecca. He kept on, however, until after passing through
Stamford, then he turned to the left and followed a road that seemed to
leave all suburban life behind, in a very short time.

"Where are you taking us, Carl?" asked Polly, curiously.

"On a road that Mr. Ashby told me about. He has never stopped at these
places, but he thinks you will find something, along here."

After several more miles had been reeled off, the eager and watchful
passengers in the car glimpsed a low one-story farm-house, with plenty of
acreage around it. The two-story box-like addition built at the rear and
hooked up to the tiny dwelling that almost squatted on the road itself,
seemed to apologise for the insignificance of its mother-house.

"Slow up, Carl. Let's look this place over," called Mrs. Fabian.

The automobile came to a stop and the ladies leaned out to inspect the
possibilities in such an old place. A girl of ten came around the corner
of the box-house and stood gazing at the people in the car.

Carl seemed to be no novice in this sort of outing, and he called to the
girl: "Hey! Is your mudder home?"

The girl nodded without saying a