rs ago. When I get
old and have time on my hands I'm going to reprint some of these--wide
margins, and footnotes, and that sort of thing. But there's fun enough
now in just having them and knowing the other fellow hasn't!"

He flung open a panel of the wainscoting at a point still free of
shelves and disclosed a door of a small iron safe which he opened with a
key. "This isn't the family silver, but a few little things that are
more valuable. These are first editions of American authors. Here's
Lowell's 'Fable for Critics,' first edition; and this is Emerson's
'Nature,' 1836--a first. These are bound by Orpcutt; had them done
myself. They feel good to the hand, don't they!"

Harwood's pleasure in the beautiful specimens of the binder's art was
unfeigned and to his questioning Bassett dilated upon the craftsmanship.

"The red morocco of the Emerson takes the gold tooling beautifully, and
the oak-leaf border design couldn't be finer. I believe this olive-green
shade is the best of all. This Whittier--a first edition of 'In War
Time'--is by Durand, a French artist, and one of the best specimens of
his work."

Those strong hands of his touched the beautiful books fondly. Harwood
took advantage of a moment when Bassett carried to the lamp Lowell's
"Under the Willows" in gold and brown, the better to display the deft
workmanship, to look more closely at the owner of these lovely baubles.
The iron hand could be very gentle! Bassett touched the volume
caressingly as he called attention to its perfection. His face, in the
lamp's full light, softened, but there was in it no hint of sensuousness
to prepare one for this indulgence in luxurious bibliomania. There was a
childlike simplicity in Bassett's delight. A man who enjoyed such
playthings could not be hard, and Dan's heart warmed with liking.

"Are you a reader of poetry?" asked Dan, as Bassett carefully collected
the books and returned them to the safe.

"No. That is something we leave behind us with our youth," he said; and
looking down at the bent head and sturdy shoulders, and watching the
strong fingers turning the key, Dan wondered what the man's youth had
been and what elements were mixed in him that soft textures of leather
and delicate tracings of gold on brown and scarlet and olive could so
delight him. His rather jaunty attitude toward the "Home Life of Hoosier
Statesmen" experienced a change. Morton Bassett was not a man who could
be hit off in a few hundred