back the lids. The coffers were full of books and manuscripts
written on vellum, a veritable sixteenth-century treasure-trove.
They hastened to report the find to Farmer Jocelyn, who, though
never greatly taken with books or anything concerning them, was
sufficiently interested to go with the eager children and look at
the discovery they had made. But as he could make nothing of
either books or manuscripts himself, he gave over the whole
collection to Innocent, saying that as they were found in her part
of the house she might keep them. No one--not even Robin--knew how
much she had loved and studied these old books, or how patiently
she had spelt out the manuscripts; and no one could have guessed
what a wide knowledge of literature she had gained or what fine
taste she had developed from her silent communications with the
parted spirit of the Sieur Amadis and his poetical remains. She
had even arranged her room as she thought he might have liked it,
in severe yet perfect taste. It was now her study as it had been
his,--the heavy oak table had a great pewter inkstand upon it and
a few loose sheets of paper with two or three quill pens ready to
hand,--some quaint old vellum-bound volumes and a brown
earthenware bowl full of "Glory" roses were set just where they
could catch the morning sunshine through the lattice window. One
side of the room was lined with loaded bookshelves, and at its
furthest end a wide arch of roughly hewn oak disclosed a smaller
apartment where she slept. Here there was a quaint little four-
poster bedstead, hung with quite priceless Jacobean tapestry, and
a still more rare and beautiful work of art--an early Italian
mirror, full length and framed in silver, a curio worth many
hundreds of pounds. In this mirror Innocent had surveyed herself
with more or less disfavour since her infancy. It was a mirror
that had always been there--a mirror in which the wife of the