The collectors took several long trips, after the vendue in Westchester County, but found nothing of value at any place.

Still they lived in hopes, and towards the last of October, Polly suggested that they try New Jersey for a change. A girl who attended Art Classes told Polly of several very old places within the vicinity of Springfield and Morristown—both old Revolutionary towns of historic fame.

So Carl drove up to the Fabian home early one Saturday morning, and Mrs. Fabian with her party, hurried out with luncheon and wraps, and were soon speeding away for the ferry-boat that would take them across the North River.

The girls had never been in New Jersey, and found much to admire in the picturesque, rolling land of the Jersey Hills. They left Newark behind, and drove along the Union Turnpike road until they reached the Forks. Here they turned to the left and in a short time, were going through the ancient town of Springfield.

They were already past it, before Mrs. Fabian found what place it was. Then they laughed, and turned back again to visit a shop on the main street. Mrs. Fabian got out of the car and went in to question the proprietor.

“Do you know of any old houses, near here, where one can secure old bits of furniture, or antique objects?”

The man chuckled. “Say, Madam, if I have one person ask me that same question, I have dozens stop to question me. I tells them all, the same as I tells you now—the only antique I can send them to anywhere about Springfield, is that old church on the corner, where you can see the hole blown in the side by a cannon ball, when the British were here. And over yonder, you will find a burial ground where many old Indians are buried, with their stone arrow-heads and other trophies with them. The crumbling grey-stone slabs and the ancient tombs found there, will give you the dates. Some go as far back as two hundred, or two hundred and fifty years.”

Mrs. Fabian thanked him and returned to the girls to repeat the conversation she had had with the shop-keeper. They all declared for a visit to the old church, and then to the cemetery, so Carl drove back and they visited both places.

In the ancient burial ground, they read many queer epitaphs on the head stones, and some of these the girls copied down. Then they got back in the automobile and Carl was told to drive on to Morristown.

This place was found to be so dreadfully modern, that no hope of discovering antiques was left alive in their hearts. But it was noon and they were hungry, so they discussed the advisability of going to a lunch-room, or driving into the country and having the picnic lunch.

“As long as we brought such a nice luncheon with us, why stop at a hotel or restaurant to eat?” asked Polly.

“There really isn’t any sense in doing that, but there certainly isn’t any picnic place in this town,” declared Eleanor.

“Well, then let’s start out and find one away from here,” suggested Polly.

“I’ll make another proposition, girls,” said Mrs. Fabian. “Why not stop at that Public Library we just passed, and find out if there are any notable spots in the vicinity of this town, where we might find old houses or old objects?”

“Well, the idea is good, but really, Mrs. Fabian, this town impresses me most emphatically with this fact: that the residents have as much desire for antiques as we have; and most likely, they started in years before we ever were born, to rake over the country-side, which must have been rich with old furniture and other things from Washington’s days here, so as to collect all those things for themselves,” was Dodo’s sensible remark.

The others smiled at her practical words, and Mrs. Fabian agreed with her. “But it will do no harm to stop just a moment to ask the attendant at the Library if she knows of any place in New Jersey where we might indulge our craze of collecting.”

Carl then turned around and they were soon back at the Library. The girls remained in the car while Mrs. Fabian went indoors to ask questions of the agreeable lady at the desk.

“I’m sure you will find a few old bits, here and there, about the country-side,” said the lady, in reply to Mrs. Fabian’s questions. “In fact, my friend furnished her old-fashioned house that she recently bought of an old 1776 family, by driving about through the Mendham country, down through New Vernon and Baskingridge—all famous Revolutionary places, you know—and by visiting places as far away as Bound Brook, Plainfield, and the country about Trenton. I was amazed at the number of old things she managed to secure.”

Being given a pencil sketch of what roads to follow to reach Mendham, or Baskingridge, Mrs. Fabian thanked her informer most graciously. Suddenly the lady said:

“Now that you are in town, why not drive down to a little auction room I’ve heard of, just off Washington Street, and see if you can find anything in that Paradise for old stuff?”

“We will! Where is it, and how do we get there?”

“The man’s name is Van Styne, and he used to be a magnet for attracting the oldest pieces to his store-rooms! People used to commission him when they wanted anything in particular, and in some super-natural manner, he used to have it for them in a few days’ time. It would have taken ordinary individuals years, with plenty of money and energy, to accomplish the same result.”

Again Mrs. Fabian thanked her interested informer, and left the library. The girls were told of the conversation and they all voted to go to Van Styne’s old auction rooms first, and then try to locate an old farm-house along the road to Mendham, or in the opposite direction, towards Baskingridge.

The building where “Van Styne—Auctioneer and Appraiser” had his sign displayed, for the public’s guidance, was a long low place that had been used as the carriage house of “Liberty Stable” years before. The tiny windows, high up in a row along the front, were stall-marks that told what it had been in the past. Now it was an “Emporium” for all who needed second-hand furniture at a bargain; or for those who sought antiques of any kind, to add to their amateur collections.

Mr. Van Styne was a white-haired, long-whiskered, thin man who sat tilted back in a broken-through rush-bottom chair that had never had a bid at his weekly auctions, hence it was put to some use in his office to pay for storage. His feet were resting on the flat-table-desk in front of him, and he was sweetly snoring when the girls opened the door of the room.

Such an unheard of thing as customers in the early part of the afternoon, caused him to jump up and remove his aged straw hat that had been tilted over his eyes to keep out the sun-light.

“We came to see if we could find anything in your salesroom,” began Mrs. Fabian, noting the dust that lay thick on everything, and the heaped up motley collection of family possessions displayed in the long adjoining stable-room.

“What kind of furniture do you need?” asked he, stifling a yawn.

“Why, anything old enough to be interesting. We heard that you were a wizard in finding antiques for people.”

The proprietor disclaimed such power, and said with a grin that displayed several gaps in his yellowed teeth, “You can mosey about, out there, to your heart’s content. If you find anything likely, call me an’ I’ll tell you what it’s wuth.”

He waved his arm to the long stacked-up storeroom, and then sat down again. In another moment his feet were up on the desk and his hat tipped down over his eyes. His hands were calmly folded over his waist-coat and he settled down to snooze, once more.

The girls giggled aloud and hurried after Mrs. Fabian to keep from laughing outright at the ambitious salesman. They prowled about and pulled out lots of things and examined many other old articles, soiling their gloves and dresses, without finding a thing that was of any value.

Finally Polly dragged out an old walnut chest of drawers to see what was stored back of it, that kept it so far away from the wall. She discovered a group of large, framed pictures standing against the wall, evidently forgotten by the auctioneer, as they were covered with a thick coating of dust.

“Come and help me lift these out, will you, Nolla?” called Polly, as Eleanor stood waiting for something new to look at.

In another moment, both girls were hauling out the mass of pictures, whose wires and screw-eyes were so entangled that to get at one, you had to drag all out at the same time.

“My goodness! Just look at our hands!” exclaimed Eleanor, holding up such dirty hands that Polly laughed.

“The result of digging!” said she, managing to separate one smaller frame from the others.

As she turned it over to study the picture, she was greatly disappointed to find it had an old, cheap, stained frame. The picture seemed nondescript to her. It was a scene of an old bridge with fine old trees on both banks of the river. Quaintly costumed people strolled along both sides of the stream, and a funny tower rose at the further end of the bridge. The colors were crude and primary—no fine shading or artistic handling to be seen. A title under the picture, and several inscriptions in French at the left side of the bottom, were so stained and blurred as to be totally unreadable with the naked eye.

Meantime, Eleanor had managed to free the next frame, which was a huge affair of old mahogany. The glass was so dreadfully dusty that not a bit of the picture underneath could be seen. She looked about for something to use as a duster, and saw an old end of chenille curtain on the walnut dresser. This she used and wiped away as much of the dirt as would come off with hard work—the rest must have hot water and soap.

“Well, I declare! Look at this old engraving!” called she to the others. Polly was at hand, and saw that Eleanor had actually found a treasure.

Mrs. Fabian hurried across the room and took her magnifying glass from her handbag being always prepared with it in case of need to study signatures and other nearly effaced trade-marks.

The large engraving represented the Independence Hall at Philadelphia, and under that was the famous Declaration of Independence, with all the original signatures following. The picture of the Hall was engraved on a smaller bit of paper and had been mounted at the top of the printed matter. The engraving was signed by the engraver, and dated. Affidavits at the bottom of the parchment paper stated that this was one of the original documents made by Order of Congress for use in the Government Buildings so that the first original paper and signatures could be preserved as a relic, by the United States.

“Why, this wonderful old paper is more than a hundred and thirty years old!” exclaimed Mrs. Fabian amazed.

“My goodness me! How much do you suppose I shall have to pay to get it?” gasped Eleanor.

“I don’t know, but you really ought to shake that dirty rag thoroughly over the glass again, to hide what is under it,” advised Dodo, with astuteness.

The others laughed. But Polly had another suggestion to make. “Let’s see what else we can find in this stack of pictures. We will choose a number of them and then make an offer on the lot, as much as to say we need bargain-frames for other uses. This rare find of Nolla’s will be hidden in with the rest.”

“Polly’s idea is best. Because the old man will know that we wouldn’t buy a picture with all the dust covering the glass,” said Nancy Fabian.

“What’s the little old one you’ve got in your hands, Polly?” now asked Mrs. Fabian.

“Oh, nothing much. It looks like an ugly little chromo printed before people knew how to use colors on printing-presses.”

Mrs. Fabian leaned over Polly’s shoulder to take a look, and puckered her forehead when she saw the yellowed paper and old stained edges of the picture.

“Polly, I verily believe that here you have something that Mr. Fabian has lectured on several times. Let me examine it.”

While the girls crowded about her, Mrs. Fabian placed the picture, face downwards, on the table near by and tried to draw out the old headless tacks driven in to hold the backboard snugly in its place.

“Well, whoever framed this picture did it for all time!” exclaimed she, breaking several fingernails and tearing the skin on her hands in the attempt to loosen the fine steel nails.

“Here! I’ve found an old pair of broken scissors in this desk—let’s use them to clinch the nails and force them out,” said Nancy, handing her mother the shears.

With this assistance, Mrs. Fabian soon had the nails out and then carefully removed the old sections of thin boards. Under the boards was a yellowed newspaper, folded neatly, and so wedged in at the edges of the frame that no dust could work a way through to the picture. Without a thought of the paper, Mrs. Fabian took it out and expected to see the back of the picture. Instead, she found a yellow-stained letter written to Paul Revere Esq. and signed by one of the famous men of the Revolution. It was a personal letter of that time, and had been used to paste over a crack in the back of the picture.

“Why—why! How very wonderful!” breathed Mrs. Fabian, as she stared at the old letter.

“What is it—anything valuable?” asked the girls.

“A genuine letter written to Paul Revere! Now that I think of it, girls, Paul Revere lived in Morristown and his home is still intact on De Hart Street, I believe. This old picture must have come from his house; or in some way, this letter found its way into someone else’s hands and was used at that time for scrap paper to mend this picture. Now let’s see what the picture is.”

But a cry from Polly, who had picked up the old newspaper and now had opened it wide, caught their fullest attention.

“Oh, oh! Isn’t this too funny for anything! Listen and I will read it.” Then Polly read aloud an advertisement in the tiny old newspaper, of a Squire at Baskingridge who wished to sell a healthy, young negro wench of unquestionable pedigree. Price and particulars would be given any interested buyer.

“Polly!” chorused her audience, in surprise. “That paper must be as old as the letter!”

“And see, girls!” added Mrs. Fabian. “It has great heavy black borders on the outside. What for, Polly?”

Polly turned over the sheet with utmost care, as it was so dry and brittle, and to the speechless astonishment of them all, it showed that the mourning bands were used for the death of George Washington. The entire front page was devoted to the news of his demise which had occurred the day before going to press. His fame, and value to the United States, were spoken of, and other features of his life were touched upon. His picture, printed from an old wood-cut, headed the page. All the spelling was such as was common at that time with the letter “e” tacked on when possible and the old English “f’s” were used for “s’s” and long-stemmed “p’s,” and high-browed “a’s” and “i’s,” were formed to show readers that the writer and editor was a well-educated man.

“Oh my! Must we fold it up and put it back of that board again?” sighed Polly, finally.

“If you want a bargain, that is what you’d better do,” returned Mrs. Fabian.

“Maybe the picture is as old as the paper,” ventured Polly.

The thought of the picture had completely vanished from the mind of Mrs. Fabian when she saw the rare old newspaper; but now she quickly picked up the article and turned it over. The magnifying glass was once more brought to bear upon the subject, and after several minutes of inspection,—minutes of impatient hesitation on the part of the girls,—she looked up bewildered with her discovery.

“Polly, this is really the missing picture that will complete the set that is on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, in New York. It is one of the famous color-prints made in France about the sixteenth century, and the subject is the famous Bridge at Avignon. This is worth thousands of dollars, dear, and I hesitate to tell you what to offer for it.”

Polly would have taken the rare picture out to the still sleeping man and offered him a sum that would have made him sit up and investigate the matter for himself. But clever Dodo advised another method.

“If you offer more than the old frame is actually worth, when you say you will pay so much for the frames—he will see right off that there’s a ‘nigger in the woodpile.’ Let’s tangle up a few of these old black-walnut frames with the two valuable pictures, and I’ll bargain for you.”

“Better let Mrs. Fabian bargain—you know how she got the candle-sticks in exchange for a two-dollar ‘bankit’ lamp,” Eleanor reminded them.

“I’ll do it, while you girls keep on poking about as if to find other things,” declared Mrs. Fabian. “Here, Polly, let us fix this frame up exactly as it was before, and I’ll take four out of the pile and place them, one on top of the other, upon this dresser, and then call the man out to quote me a price on the lot.”

This was carefully done, dust being shaken out of the old curtain so that the glass was again coated, and then dust was shaken over the back where the board had been removed and cleaned.

A dreadful lithograph showing a string of fish, framed in a wide gilt affair, was one that was chosen for the group. An oval frame with a woman’s photograph in it, was another selected. Then the four were arranged: The large engraving at the bottom, the fish next, then the little old relic, and on top, the oval frame. All four appeared dirty and insignificant as they lay on the top of the dresser; and to finish the work, Polly used the chenille rag to gather up as much dust as possible from the filthy floor, and shook it vigorously over all the frames. Such a choking and coughing as ensued made them separate in haste, for fear the noise would make the auctioneer come out to enquire.

But he was too deeply concerned with some pleasant dream to awake to business, before his usual time for the afternoon siesta had ended, so Mrs. Fabian went out to rouse him.

“Eh, what did you say?” exclaimed he, jumping up.

“I want you to tell me how much are a few picture-frames which we found in a corner.”

“Oh, anything you like. How much do you think they are wuth?” was his reply.

Mrs. Fabian smiled pleasantly. “That is not what I said. You are the salesman and I the buyer. You should state a price.”

“Um—ah!” yawned Mr. Van Styne at this, and stretched his arms out over his head. “I s’pose that ends my nap, eh?”

He shuffled out of the office after Mrs. Fabian and went into the store-house. When he saw the girls poking about amongst the old chairs, bureaus, and motley collection of furniture, he laughed, and said: “That’s right! Find all the old bargains you can. I’m your man to sell them cheap to you.”

Had he but known what he was about to do!

Mrs. Fabian led him down to the corner where the pile of four pictures were waiting on the dresser, and said: “These are the four I want a price on. The frames are all in good order and the glasses are not cracked at all.”

Mr. Van Styne took a pair of old steel-rimmed specs from the vest-pocket over his heart, and pushed them upon his thin nose. He picked up the top oval frame, blew off the dust and laughed at the homely face that stared out at him. He turned to Mrs. Fabian with a twinkle in his eyes and said, jokingly:

“Now, if that gal was your relation and you wanted her ugly photograph that bad, I’d say the hull thing was wuth a dollar to you. But seein’ it’s fifty year old, and you ain’t near that, yet, I will sell her fer a quarter. The glass is wuth that, I reckon.”

He placed it face down beside the other three pictures. “Now this one,” taking up the rare old print with the newspaper packed in the back, “Ain’t wuth a darn, so why do you pick it out?”

“But the glass is the right size and will cost me more to order, than I can get it for of you,” remarked Mrs. Fabian, anxiously, while the girls held their breath.

The old auctioneer heard the note of anxiety in her tone and peered over his specs to study her guileless expression. She instantly guarded herself, when she saw his look, and so he saw only a nice lady who was now picking up the fish-picture.

“And this dining-room picture; how much will you take for it. Why not give me a job-lot price and I’ll see. I may as well pack four as two in the automobile.”

But Mr. Van Styne had not known there was an automobile; and he was wondering now, why people with a car should come in and pick out a few picture glasses to save money. He glanced over the last picture which was the large engraving, and then turned it over to look at its back.

“That’s a mighty big sheet of glass in that one. That glass alone, cost about a dollar-forty. Then the frame’s a good hard-wood frame, too. I’ll look up my books and see who sent them pictures in for sale. Then I can see if they put a figger on them.”

He made notes of the chalk numbers marked on the backs of the picture-boards and then started for his office. Mrs. Fabian, with sinking heart, followed at his heels.

“If he looks up his records and finds they came from the old house of Paul Revere and his descendants, he will never sell them at a decent price,” thought she, impatiently.

She sat opposite the old man while he fumbled the pages of his book and slowly glanced down the entries, his bent fore-finger pointing to each item carefully as he read.

“Um! Here it is: Number 329, came from Sarah Dolan, who moved to a smaller flat last Spring. From this entry I see that all them seven pictures came from her. Do you happen to know her?”

Mr. Van Styne glanced up at his companion.

She shook her head, and he said, closing the book, “Why, Sally Dolan was cook fer the Revere boys, and when they broke up, she started a bordin’ house down on Morris Street. Then she took rheumatiz and was that crippled, she couldn’t get about the kitchen no more, so she gave up. Her boys manage to keep her now, and she takes things easy. But she sure was a good cook!”

Much as Mrs. Fabian would have liked to question the old man about the Revere boys she feared he might remember that the cook was given a lot of old pictures when the boys “broke up”, so she turned the subject adroitly.

“Well, I’ll go and see what the girls have found out there, I guess. But I wish you’d fix a price on those four frames.”

“Lem’me see, now. Sal Dolan didn’t set no price, and if I say five dollars for the four, would you take ’em?”

“Dear me!” objected Mrs. Fabian, craftily. “The large one you said was worth about a dollar-thirty, and the fish-picture a dollar. That leaves two dollars and seventy cents for the other two. Isn’t that pretty high for them?”

“But that fish picture makes a fine dinin’ room piece, especially if you could get the mate what is a brace of quails.”

“Oh well, rather than jew you down, I’ll take them, if you will take the trouble to make me out a receipt for the four.”

“Ain’t this a cash sale?” queried the man, wonderingly.

“Of course, but two of them are for friends. I only intend keeping the other two. I want them, to have the bill to show, you see.”

Thereupon Mr. Van Styne wrote out the bill on a scrap of paper and receipted it, and then counted the five one dollar bills Mrs. Fabian had paid him. “Ten per cent fer me and the rest for Sally,” he added as he rolled fifty cents inside four one dollar bills and pocketed the other fifty cents.

Mrs. Fabian was about to go for the pictures, when Polly came out. “I want to ask the auctioneer how much this little box and mirror are?” and she showed a lovely little Empire dressing-mirror to him. It was scratched and had been varnished, but its former beauty could be quickly restored, for the form and material were good as ever.

“I’m told that is a real antique. That piece come from the old Revere place, too. Mrs. Dolan says she heard it was used by the boy’s grandmother. But I don’t know what to charge.”

“I’ll give you ten dollars for it,” eagerly said Polly.

“Ten dollars!” gasped the man, sinking back in his desk-chair.

Mrs. Fabian tried to signal Polly, but the girl was too intent on securing the gem. Then Mrs. Fabian said to the man:

“Dear me! The child has more money than brains, eh?” and laughed heartily.

“I ain’t so sure about that. She certainly knows a good thing,” returned Mr. Van Styne. Then he said to Polly: “Will you carry it right along with you, if I sell it for ten?”

“Of course!” declared she, and the sale was made.

“I guess we’d better be going, Polly,” suggested Mrs. Fabian, now. This told the girl that the deal over the pictures had been consummated, but she did not ask questions then.

Mrs. Fabian went back to gather up her four precious pictures, and had the other girls help her carry them away. Then they bid the good old man good-by and started off.

“Come again, when you have more time to poke around,” said he, as he stood on the doorstep watching them walk towards the car which was waiting a short distance down the street.

“We certainly will, and if you get anything really antique in the place at any time, drop me word, or telephone to the address I left on your desk, just now,” said Mrs. Fabian.

Once the hunters were safely on the way to New York, the girls importuned Mrs. Fabian to tell them the story of the pictures, but she laughingly remarked:

“Do you know, we forgot all about our luncheon! Poor Carl must be famished!”

“Not much,” retorted Carl. “I went to that quick lunch-room across from the old junk-shop, and got the best dinner for forty cents that I ever tasted. But we will stop for a picnic, when we reach the country, if you say so.”

“No, indeed! We’ll eat as we drive along, Carl,” said Mrs. Fabian, then turning to the girls, she told the tale[A] of the old pictures and what she paid for them.

“Why!” gasped the wondering girls. “It can’t be possible!”

At that, Mrs. Fabian produced the bill of sale and said: “I got this in case there ever should be any dispute over the legality of this negotiation. The two awful pictures we can give to some family along the road, but the two precious ones we will cherish as if they were the Koh-i-noor Diamond.”

When the Ashbys and Mr. Fabian heard the story, and saw the validity of the two pictures, they sat astounded. Mr. Fabian then said:

“Polly really ought to immortalize her name by presenting this missing scroll to the Metropolitan Museum, but she can keep the letter and newspaper. That ought to be worth the price she paid for the ‘glass’.”

“That’s just what I’ll do, Mr. Fabian. I would never feel happy if I kept a thing that is considered so rare, and has been sought for by the Museum’s collectors.”

So Polly Brewster’s name is to be found ticketed as the donor of the twelfth valuable picture in that set.