helves next to Stevenson's, significantly. He has a high
regard for Arthur Christopher Benson's essays. "But does the man think I
have as much shelving as the Museum?" he growls.

But these newer books are the minority. The composed, brown calf
bindings give the shop its tone,--and its faint odor, too; a cultivated
taste, the liking for that odor of old books.

Mr. Rowlandson's desk is in the alcove at the back of the shop; and in
its lowest drawer, oftener than elsewhere, his gray cat, Selima,
stretches her lazy length.

On a bright, crisp morning, nearly a week after Phyllis had lain awake
thinking, Mr. Rowlandson sat at this desk, looking through his post,
which consisted chiefly of book-catalogues. Having laid these aside, he
opened a bulky parcel the post had brought. It proved to be a thick,
square, black volume; a most unattractive book. But Mr. Rowlandson
viewed it with interest.

"My me! My me!" he exclaimed, and read the title-page; "'Proceedings of
the British Engineering Society for the Year 1848.' So, you have finally
come to light, old hide-and-seek! Sir Peter Oglebay will be pleased.
From Brussels, of all the unlikely--Well, well, I must remember to
cancel the advertisement in the 'Athenaeum.'"

He picked up a blue saucer from the floor and stood, for a moment,
watching Selima's quick paw, engaged in ablutions.

"Over your ear it goes," said he. "That means customers."

He began his morning's work with a feather duster. Occasionally he
straightened a row of books. The bell tinkled, and Phyllis, in her brown
coat and hat, stood, hesitant, at the door. She carried a parcel.

"Mr. Rowlandson?" she asked timidly.

"My name," he replied. "And you are Mrs. Landless. I have seen you
before, although you have not seen me."

"I have heard a great deal about you, though, from Farquharson," said
Phyllis. "And yesterday I took advantage of your invitation to see the
pretty things in your rooms; I want to thank you for the opportunity;
they are lovely old things."

"Mrs. F. took you up, did she? Well, they are pretty, and I am glad they
pleased you. A foolish fancy, Mrs. Landless; a foolish fancy for an old
man like me. But I am very fond of my fans and patch-boxes."

"I should think you would love them," said Phyllis. "Where in the world
did you find them all?"

"Oh, in all sorts of odd nooks. They turn up when one is looking for
them. Everything does, Mrs. Landless. That is one of the queer things
ab