Why, she knew not, but the thought of him on this quiet Sunday afternoon filled her with tender recollections.

She opened every dusty book in the glass bookcase, but in vain.

Here was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress"; and here a worm-eaten, brown stained book of sermons; here were Williams of "Pantycelyn's" Hymns and his "Theomemphis," with Bibles old and new, but _not_ the one which she sought.

Mounting a chair, and from thence the table, she at last drew out from under a glass shade, covering a group of stuffed birds, a dust-begrimed book, with a brass clasp and nails at the corners.

Dusting it carefully she laid it on the table before her, and proceeded to decipher its faded inscriptions.