"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.

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"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."

"I have, thank—Well, I suppose I should say thanks to Mr. Stanley G. Fulton," he laughed, with some embarrassment. "I wish Mr. Fulton could know—how much I do thank him," he finished soberly, his eyes caressing the rows of volumes on the shelves. "You see, when you've wanted something all your life—" He stopped with an expressive gesture.

"You don't care much for—that, then, I take it," inferred Mr. Smith, with a wave of his hand toward the distant violins.

"Dad says there's only one thing worse than a party, and that's two parties," piped up Benny from his seat on the rug.

Mr. Smith laughed heartily, but the other looked still more discomfited.

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"I'm afraid Benny is—is telling tales out of school," he murmured.

"Well, 'tis out of school, ain't it?" maintained Benny. "Say, Mr. Smith, did you have ter go ter a private school when you were a little boy? Ma says everybody does who is anybody. But if it's Cousin Stanley's money that's made us somebody, I wished he'd kept it at home—'fore I had ter go ter that old school."