ing up to London on
Tuesday, and I'll take the book with me, and ask Petteridges about it.
They're sure to know. Don't look too excited. It won't realize a
fortune I assure you, and it may be worth nothing at all."

"Oh, thanks! It's worth trying," gasped Lesbia gratefully.

So on Tuesday Mr. Patterson slipped the small calf-bound volume into his
coat pocket, and made a special call at a famous second-hand
bookseller's in the Strand. He returned with good news for Lesbia.

"Petteridge agreed that the illustrations are genuine Bewicks, rather
rare ones too, in his earlier period. He said the book was worth L2,
10_s._, and offered me that much for it. I thought you'd want to sell
it, so I said 'Done', and brought you home the notes. Here they are; lot
205 has been a profitable little 'deal' on your part."

"O-o-o-h! And I _very_ nearly left it behind in the garden," exclaimed
Lesbia, hardly able to believe her luck.

With such a noble sum of money at her disposal she was able to set
herself up with an oil paint-box, palette, brushes, some canvases, and a
small sketching-easel and camp-stool, an artistic outfit such as she had
coveted long, and hardly expected ever to acquire.

"A _new_ box is ever so much nicer than the one I saw at the sale," she
exulted. "I dare say half the tubes would have been hard as bricks, and
the palette was cracked too. That auctioneer did me a good turn if he
only knew it."

"I wonder no wily dealer snapped up the lot," said Kitty. "How savage
they'd be if they knew what they'd missed."

"I expect they never saw it amongst all that rubbish, or perhaps old
books were not in their line. It takes special knowledge to collect
them. I flatter myself it isn't everyone who recognizes an illustration
by Bewick," commented Mr. Patterson, who was as pleased as anybody over
the matter.

"Well, it was a simply gorgeous find, and I think I'm an out-and-out
lucker," rejoiced Lesbia, folding up her precious parcel of art
materials, and carrying them away to gloat over them in the private
sanctuary of her own bedroom.

CHAPTER XIV

A Country Cottage

Given a new paint-box, palette, brushes, and canvasses, together with
a burning enthusiasm but no time, the answer does not always spell
High Art. Lesbia's first instinct was to fling everything to the winds
and to devote herself in season and out of season to her absorbing
hobby. But the examinations were coming on, and Mrs. Patterson, who