entered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risen
and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost
cried out.

"Oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "my
dear little son!"

[Sidenote: The Priceless Legacy]

That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the
books. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man
of discriminating, yet catholic, taste. The books had been used and were
not, as so often happens, merely ornaments. Page after page had been
interlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in
marginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicating
always understanding and appreciation.

As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours in
this library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside and
took up another. Always there were pictures and sometimes many of them,
for in his later years Laurence Austin had contracted the baneful habit
of extra-illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physical
sense, Miss Mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way.

Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year by
year, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, through
the medium of the marginal notes. He wondered, sometimes, that a pencil
mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made
it. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters
are the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay.