"We shall see about that in the morning, and in the meantime you had
better go to bed," said the laird.

They turned together toward the door.

"What a multitude of books, you have, Mr. Fordyce!" remarked George. "I
had not a notion of such a library in the county!"

"I have been a lover of books all my life," returned the laird. "And
they gather, they gather!" he added.

"Your love draws them," said George.

"The storm is over, I think," said the laird.

He did not tell his guest that there was scarcely a book on those
shelves not sought after by book-buyers--not one that was not worth
money in the book-market. Here and there the dulled gold of a fine
antique binding returned the gleam of the candle, but any gathering of
old law or worthless divinity would have looked much the same.

"I should like to glance over them," said George. "There must be some
valuable volumes among so many!"

"Rubbish! rubbish!" rejoined the old man, testily, almost hustling him
from the room. "I am ashamed to hear it called a library."

It seemed to Crawford, as again he lay awake in his bed, altogether a
strange incident. A man may count his money when he pleases, but not the