he was sixty years of age, just fifty years after his
association with Uncle Benjamin, he wandered out into the byways of the
old London bookstores.

It was early spring; the winter fogs of London had disappeared, the
squares were turning green, the hedgerows blooming, the birds were
singing on the thorns. Such a sunny, blue morning might have called him
into the country, but he turned instead into the flowerless ways of the
book stalls. He wandered about for a time and found nothing. Then he
thought of old Humphrey, of whom he had bought books perhaps out of
pity. There was something about this man that held him; he seemed
somehow like a link of the unknown past. He compelled him to buy books
that he did not want or need.

"This is a fine spring morning," said old Humphrey, as he saw the portly
form of Franklin enter the door. "I have been thinking of you much of
late. I do not seem to be able to have put you out of my mind; and why
should I, a fine gentleman like you, and uncommonly civil. I have
something that I have been allotting on showing you. It is very curious;
it is a library of thirty-six volumes of pamphlets, and it minds me that
a more interesting collection of pamphlets was never made. I read them
myself in lonesome days when there is no trade. Let me show you one of
the volumes."

"No, never mind, my friend. I could not buy the whole library, however
interesting it might be. I will look for something smaller. This is a
very old bookstore."

"Ay, it is that. It has been kept here ever since the times of the
Restoration, and before. My wife's father used to keep it when he was an
old man and I was a boy. And now I am an old man. I must show you one of
those books or pamphlets. They are all written over."

Benjamin Franklin sat down on a stool in the light, and took up an odd
volume of the Canterbury Tales.

Old Humphrey lighted a candle and went into a dark recess. He presently
returned, bringing one of the thirty-six volumes of pamphlets.

"My American friend, if one liked old things, and the comments of one
dead and gone, this library of pamphlets would be food for thought. Just
look at this volume!"

He struck the book against a shelf to remove the dust, and handed it to
Franklin.

The latter adjusted his spectacles to the light, and turned over the
volume.

"As you say," he said to old Humphrey, "it is all written over."

[Illustration: A STRANGE DISCOVERY.]

"And uncommonly interesting