held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade. There was a fireplace,
and on the mantel above it a bust or two.

But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger
Poole.

Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth
and fine leather--the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.
As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living,
breathing collection of a true book-lover--not a musty, fusty
aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect. The
owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.

"This is the sitting-room," his guide was telling him, "and the bedroom
and bath open out from it." She had opened a connecting door. "This
room is awfully torn up. But we have just finished dressing Constance.
She is down-stairs now in the Sanctum. We'll pack her trunks to-morrow
and send them, and then if you should care to take the rooms, we can
put back the bedroom furniture that father had. He used this suite,
and brought his books up after mother died."

He halted on the threshold of that inner room. If the old house below
had seemed filled with rosy effulgence, this was the heart of the rose.
Two small white beds were side by side in an alcove. Their covers were
of pink overlaid with lace, and the chintz of the big couch and chairs
reflected the same enchanting hue. With all the color, however, there
was the freshness of simplicity. Two tall glass candlesticks on the
dressing table, a few photographs in silver and ivory frames--these
were the only ornaments.