essays well filled. Fiction, too, of the lasting kind, and delightful
books of travel, biography and humour.

There were reading chairs, arranged near windows and with handy tables;
there were desks, perfectly appointed; racks of new books and magazines;
portfolios of pictures, and cosy window seats and _tête-à-têtes_.

There were a few fine pictures, and many little intimate sketches by
worth-while pencils or brushes. And there were treasured books, valuable
intrinsically or because of their inscriptions, that Farnsworth had
collected here and there.

Small wonder, then, that the library was the favourite room in the house
and that after dinner Patty proposed they go there for their coffee.

"Some room!" ejaculated Chick Channing, as they sauntered in and stood
about, gazing at the wealth of books.

"Glorious!" agreed Mona, who had a mere pretence of a library in her own
home. "I didn't know you were so literary, Patty."

"Oh, I'm not. It's Little Billee's gigantic intellect that planned this
room, and he's the power that keeps it going. Every week he sends up a
cartload of new books--"

"Oh, come, now, Patty,--I haven't bought a book for a fortnight!" laughed
Farnsworth. "But I've just heard of a fine old edition of Ike Walton that
I can get at--"

"There, there, my son, don't get started on your hobby," implored