nd was
inscribed in characters almost obliterated by wear, the words, "To
George, on his 21st birthday, 1891."'

"It was Father's. Uncle Thomas gave it to him," explained Nancy,
simply, and at the same moment both of them were thinking of the
eccentric old gentleman, whose gift to a beloved nephew was now being
used to assist that nephew's daughter in a difficulty in which _his_
help was denied her.

"Now, how would you like to spend your time for three-quarters of an
hour or so?" asked Mr. Arnold, as they walked out of the restaurant.
"I am going off with this ring and I'll be back with the money as soon
as I possibly can. You pick some place for me to meet you."

Nancy glanced up and down the street, trying to find some spot where
she could amuse herself.

"I think I'd like to look around some book-shop--is there one near
here?"

"I'm an authority on the subject. I know every book-shop in New York,
and if you'll follow me I'll show you my favorite haunt. Then I can be
sure that you won't wander away--my only trouble will be in getting you
out of the place, and if I were wise I wouldn't let you go there under
any circumstances. But my generosity was always very much greater than
my wisdom."

He conducted Nancy, accordingly, to this paradise, and rather
lingeringly withdrew on his errand, leaving her in the quaint little
shop, where perfect tidal waves of books rose on all sides of her,
distracting her with alluring, familiar titles, with the sight of
hundreds upon hundreds of rare old volumes, and with that peculiar
smell of leather and paper and ink and mustiness which is to the
nostrils of the book-lover as the scent of earth and trees is to the
wanderer.

On one of the shelves her eyes caught a glimpse of a name on the back
of three or four delicately bound volumes, and she quickly took one of
them down to inspect it, suddenly remembering her uncle's remark about
that "author-person." The name on the back of the book was "George
Arnold." It was a volume of stories, finely bound, and illustrated
with pen drawings by a very famous artist and designer; and was
prefaced by a foreword from the pen of one of the most celebrated of
the present-day English critics.

Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf,
and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open
on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there;
and it was with surprise and plea