Two days later, while out after orders, Frank met Samuel Windham. The young farmer had an exceedingly sober look on his face.

“My wife is quite sick,” said he. “Had the doctor twice and have got to have him again, I reckon.”

“I hope she recovers soon,” said our hero, sympathetically.

“Oh, I think she’ll be all right by next week. But it’s a big expense to me. And in that heavy wind the other night my chimney blew down, and that has got to be fixed, which means more money out of my pocket.”

“Does the farm pay?”

“I could make it pay if I had money to buy more cows and an extra horse. But I haven’t the money, and folks around here don’t care to trust a fellow.”

“I’m going to look over those books again to-night,” went on Frank. “If I can make anything out of them, I’ll give you half.”

“Why, I ain’t entitled to nothing more. A bargain is a bargain,” said the young farmer, in surprise.

“Never mind—I’ve not forgotten how you assisted me on the road.”

“That puts me in mind. Those boys are in trouble for keeps now. They robbed an orchard of some extra fine pears, and the owner gave each of ’em a tremendous walloping.”

“Well, they deserved it,” answered Frank.

Having eaten his supper, Frank went directly to his room, and got out the bundle of books he had procured from Samuel Windham. He piled the volumes on the table and began to look them over. There were four histories, an atlas, and several volumes of poetry.

“The histories won’t bring much—they are too much worn,” thought the young book agent.

“But this book of Longfellow’s poems may——Goodness gracious me!”

Frank fairly gasped the last words, and his eyes bulged out of his head. For from between the leaves of the book had dropped a hundred-dollar bill.

“A hundred dollars!” he cried, and then checked himself. Arising, he locked the door of the room, and pulled down the window shade.

With nervous fingers he thumbed over the volume. Before long he came across another bill, and then another.

“Three hundred dollars—no, four hundred!” he murmured, and then shook out two more. “Why, this is a regular gold mine!”

At last he had gone over the book carefully, and now he had before him ten one-hundred-dollar bills—exactly a thousand dollars! The book contained nothing more. He cast it aside and took up the remaining volumes.

At last the examination was complete, and before him lay a total of fourteen hundred dollars. Each of the bank bills was crisp and new, and as he gazed at them his heart almost stopped beating. Fourteen hundred dollars! It was a little fortune. With so much money he could open a bank account of his own, or go into a store business.

But swiftly on the heels of this thought came another. This money was not his. It was true he had purchased the books, but the original owner had not known that this money lay hidden in the volumes.

“This is the fortune Mrs. Windham’s uncle, Alexander, promised to leave her,” he told himself. “I must give it to her and at once.”

Fearful that the money might get away from him, Frank placed the crisp bills in an envelope, and pinned this fast in an inner pocket of his vest. Then he went below again, got out his bicycle, and lit the lantern.

“You are going to take quite a late ride,” said Mr. Basswood, who was on the hotel veranda, smoking.

“Yes, I have a little business to attend to,” answered Frank.

He was soon wheeling off in the direction of the Windham cottage. There was no moon, but the stars shone brightly, and his lamp was a good one, so he had little difficulty in keeping out of danger. In about an hour he reached Samuel Windham’s place, and dismounting, walked to the door and knocked.

“Why, hullo, is it you?” came from Samuel Windham, as he opened the door, and looked at Frank in astonishment. “I didn’t expect a visitor so late.”

“I’m sure you’ll forgive me when you know what I’ve come for,” returned the young book agent. “How is your wife?”

“She’s pretty fair to-night.”

“Who is that, Samuel?” came from a side room of the cottage.

“It’s that young agent, Mr. Hardy,” answered the husband.

“Oh!”

“Mr. Windham, I believe you told me once that your wife had an uncle named Alexander,” said Frank.

“Exactly; Alexander Price.”

“May I speak to your wife about Mr. Price?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you wish to know?” asked Mrs. Windham. “You may come in here if it is anything in particular.”

“Thank you, I will,” said our hero, and he followed Samuel Windham into the apartment. The wife of the young farmer was in bed, looking pale and worried.

“I am sorry to see you sick, Mrs. Windham,” began Frank.

“Yes; I’ve had a bad spell, but I am a little better now.”

“As I said before, I came to ask you about your uncle, Alexander Price.”

“What of him?”

“He was a bit eccentric, was he not?”

“Very eccentric indeed. He imagined that many folks were trying to get the best of him.”

“He promised to leave you some money when he died, didn’t he?”

“Why do you ask that question?”

“Never mind just now. Please answer my question.”

“Yes, he said that when he died I was to have everything he left, and he said something about a thousand dollars or more. But I never got the money.”

“Did he say where he had placed the money?”

“No. We thought he had it in a savings bank, but we could never find any bank book. Oh, tell me, have you found a bank book among those books we let you have?”

“No, I haven’t found any bank book, I have found something better yet,” and Frank smiled broadly.

“Something—better—yet?” said the woman, and raised herself from her pillow. “Oh, Mr. Hardy, what have you found? Tell me, quick!”

“When I was looking over one of the books I found a hundred-dollar bill.”

“Oh!”

“A hundred dollars!” cried Samuel Windham. “Of course you ain’t going to try to keep it, Mr. Hardy?” he added, hastily.

“No, I think it belongs to your wife.”

“Oh, thank Heaven for that money!” burst out Mrs. Windham. “We need it so much.”

“I got interested and began to look the book over more carefully,” continued Frank. “Pretty soon, out dropped another hundred-dollar bill!”

“What!”

“Oh, Samuel!”

“Then I looked the book over from cover to cover, and got several more one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“Mr. Hardy, do you mean it?” screamed Mrs. Windham.

“I certainly do.”

“And I am not dreaming? Oh, Samuel, this is too good to be true.”

“Where is the money?” asked the husband.

“I have it here,” said Frank, bringing out the envelope. “From one book I went to the next, until I was certain that no more bills were hidden away.”

“And how much did you find, all told?” asked Samuel Windham.

“How much do you think?”

“Did you really get the thousand dollars?” came faintly from the young farmer’s wife.

“I got fourteen hundred dollars, ma’am, and here are the bills,” said our hero, and brought them forth.

He spread them out on the bed cover, and Samuel Windham brought the lamp closer, that he and his wife might gaze at the money.

“Oh, Samuel, it’s a fortune!” murmured the wife. “Just think of it! We can have the house repaired, and you can buy that extra horse, and some cows, and a new mower and reaper.”

“And to think we never looked into them books for this money,” answered the husband. “Supposing the books had been burnt up.”

“Or we might have sold them to some dishonest man who would have kept the bank bills, Samuel.” Mrs. Windham turned to Frank. “You are very honest, Mr. Hardy.”

“By George, that’s true!” ejaculated Samuel Windham, and caught our hero by the hand. “It ain’t one fellow out of a hundred would be as square.”

“I knew the money belonged to you folks, and that was all there was to it,” said Frank, modestly.

“It’s a great blessing,” murmured Mrs. Windham. “Fourteen hundred dollars! Why, I never saw so much cash before! Samuel, we must reward Mr. Hardy for this.”

“I’m willing, Millie; but the money is yours, not mine.”

“No, Samuel, it is yours as much as mine.”

“I don’t know as I want a reward,” came from Frank. “I only hope the money does you a whole lot of good.”

“You’ve got to take something,” insisted Samuel Windham. “I’ll talk it over with my wife later.”

After that Frank had to tell all the particulars of just how the money had been found, and then the Windhams told him how Alexander Price had lived and died, and how queer he was in more ways than one. Mrs. Windham had been his only living relative, so there could be no doubt but that the bank bills were meant for her.

It was nearly midnight before Frank returned to the hotel. He felt very light-hearted, for he had done his duty, and made two of his fellow beings very happy.