"Hain't seen him—but I can guess where he is, pretty well. You go down that hall and turn to your left. In a little room at the end you'll find him. That's his den. He told Hattie 'twas the only room in the house he'd ask for, but he wanted to fix it up himself. Hattie, she wanted to buy all sorts of truck and fix it up with cushions and curtains and Japanese gimcracks like she see a den in a book, and make a showplace of it. But Jim held out and had his way. There ain't nothin' in it but books and chairs and a couch and a big table; and they're all old—except the books—so Hattie don't show it much, when she's showin' off the house. You'll find him there all right. You see if you don't. Jim always would rather read than eat, and he hates shindigs of this sort a little worse 'n I do." "All right. I'll look him up," nodded Mr. Smith, as he turned away.

Deliberately, but with apparent carelessness, strolled Mr. Smith through the big drawing-rooms, and down the hall. Then to the left— the directions were not hard to follow, and the door of the room at the end was halfway open, giving a glimpse of James Blaisdell and Benny before the big fireplace.

With a gentle tap and a cheerful "Do you allow intruders?" Mr. Smith pushed open the door.

James Blaisdell sprang to his feet.

"Er—I—oh, Mr. Smith, come in, come right in!" The frown on his face gave way to a smile. "I thought—Well, never mind what I thought. Sit down, won't you?"

"Thank you, if you don't mind."

Mr. Smith dropped into a chair and looked about him.

"Ain't it great?" beamed Benny. "It's 'most as nice as Aunt Maggie's, ain't it? And I can eat all the cookies here I want to, and come in even if my shoes are muddy, and bring the boys in, too."

"It certainly is—great," agreed Mr. Smith, his admiring eyes sweeping the room again.

To Mr. Smith it was like coming into another world. The deep, comfortable chairs, the shaded lights, the leaping fire on the hearth, the book-lined walls—even the rhythmic voices of the distant violins seemed to sing of peace and quietness and rest.

"Dad's been showin' me the books he used ter like when he was a little boy like me," announced Benny. "Hain't he got a lot of 'em?—books, I mean."

"He certainly has."

Mr. James Blaisdell stirred a little in his chair.

"I suppose I have—crowded them a little," he admitted. "But, you see, there were so many I'd always wanted, and when the chance came—well, I just bought them; that's all."

"And you have the time now to read them."