Within a week after the westerners had gone back home, matters with Polly and her friends in New York settled down in a smooth current. The Fabians found a commodious house in a refined environment quite near the Ashby’s home, and the two girls, Polly and Eleanor, lived with them.

Mr. Fabian temporarily resumed his lectureship at the Art School of Cooper Union, and his two promising pupils, with Dodo Alexander as a new beginner, accompanied him every night that the classes met.

The Alexanders had leased an expensive suite at an apartment hotel near the Fabians, and much to little Mr. Alexander’s joy, although much to Mrs. Alexander’s disgust, they settled down to a hum-drum life that winter. She sighed as she referred to her life.

“Dear sakes! Here I am with all this money to spend on a fine time, and I have to waste my days sitting around hearing Dodo rave about Corunthian Columns, Ionack Piers, and such foolish stuff. As for Ebeneezer! He is just impossible to get along with, since he found what quiet friends he had in the Fabians and the Ashbys!”

The result of such complaints from Mrs. Alexander were soon evidenced by her spending her evenings at theatres, dances at various clubs and places she had forced an entrance to, and in daily shopping trips about the city.

The motley collection of antiques the girls had secured while abroad and had shipped home, arrived in due season and the cases were sent to Mr. Ashby’s Shop. The girls were told that the goods had been delivered, and the next day they hastened to the establishment to admire their purchases.

The articles were arranged in one small room, and when the three girls followed Mr. Ashby to the place, they were amazed at the insignificance of their exhibition.

“Why! I thought I had a lot of stuff,” declared Eleanor.

“You see all that you bought. There is your list,” laughed Mr. Ashby, sympathizing in her disillusionment.

“And I thought that chest so much more elaborate—when I chose it in France,” ventured Polly, puckering her forehead.

“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Ashby. “When we see these pieces on the other side, the glamour of the places and the stories connected with them, actually charm us more than the objects themselves. After we secure our desires and find we own them, we ship them home and do not see them again until they reach prosaic and business-like New York.

“Meantime, we enhance the beauty and romance of the objects we purchased, by thinking of them in connection with the romance of their past; thus idealizing them in mental pictures, they appear far finer and more alluring than in truth they are.

“When we really view them again, just as you are now doing, the shock of finding them just simple antiques, and so inferior to what we dreamed them, reverses our sentiments about them.

“Now beware, girls! Don’t let this reversal affect you, in the least. These objects are just as valuable and desirable, here, as ever they were over there. It is only your personal view-point that has changed, somewhat. You have not been visiting old collections, or museums abroad, for some weeks now; and the radical change from touring ancient Europe, to rushing about in New York in quests of homes, school, and clothes for the season, has made a corresponding change in your minds.

“In a short time, you will be back in harness and feel the same keen delight in these old possessions as aforetime.”

Polly appreciated the sense of Mr. Ashby’s little lecture, but Eleanor still felt disappointed with her purchases. And Dodo laughed outright at the old pewter she had gone wild over in England, and now scorned in America.

That evening Mr. Fabian explained, carefully, about the times and customs of the purchases that represented certain people. He wove a tale of romance about each piece of furniture the girls had delighted in, and enhanced their interest in the dishes and other small objects they had collected that summer, until the three disappointed owners felt a renewed attraction in the articles.

Mr. Ashby was present, but he said nothing until Mr. Fabian had ended. Then he added in a suggestive manner: “Fabian, what do you say to the girls taking short trips to the country, each week, to hunt up such antiques as can be found in out-of-the-way nooks all through New England?”

The girls perked up their ears at this, and waited to hear Mr. Fabian’s reply.

“If they had a car and someone to accompany them on such excursions, I think they would thoroughly enjoy it.”

“Dalken has three cars—two limousines, you know; and he told me that he wished he could prevail upon the girls to make use of one, instead of his leaving it in a garage to eat up its value in rent. I thought of this way to give the girls many interesting quests, and make use of the car at the same time, so I mentioned it to him. He was delighted and wants the girls to try the plan,” explained Mr. Ashby.

“And I will offer myself as chaperone,” hastily added Mrs. Fabian.

“If I could only be included in these outings I should love it,” laughed Nancy Fabian.

“You are! Any one who belongs to us, must consider themselves as invited,” said Polly, laughingly.

So an outing for Saturday was planned, that night, and Mrs. Fabian and Nancy were to manage the details for the girls.

“We will choose a likely country-side for our first trial,” remarked Mrs. Fabian, looking at her husband for advice.

“That’s hard sense,” laughed he. “But where is such a spot?”

“Somewhere in New England,” ventured Nancy.

“That’s as ambiguous as ‘Somewhere in France,’” retorted Polly.

“Not when you consider that New England begins just the other side of the city-line of Portchester,” said Mr. Fabian.

“But there are no antiques to be found in Rye, Portchester or Greenwich, in these days of amateur collectors hunting over those sections,” remarked Mrs. Fabian.

“You are not limited to those nearby towns; but you can travel fifty miles in the inland sections in a short time, and stop at simple little farm-houses to inquire, as we did this summer while touring England. I wager you’ll come home with enough trophies of war to start you off again, in a day or two,” explained Mr. Fabian.

On Saturday morning, Mrs. Fabian packed an auto-kit with delectable sandwiches, cakes and other dainties, and the party of amateur collectors started out on their quest. The chauffeur smiled at their eagerness to arrive at some place on the Boston Post Road that might suggest that it led to their Mecca. He kept on, however, until after passing through Stamford, then he turned to the left and followed a road that seemed to leave all suburban life behind, in a very short time.

“Where are you taking us, Carl?” asked Polly, curiously.

“On a road that Mr. Ashby told me about. He has never stopped at these places, but he thinks you will find something, along here.”

After several more miles had been reeled off, the eager and watchful passengers in the car glimpsed a low one-story farm-house, with plenty of acreage around it. The two-story box-like addition built at the rear and hooked up to the tiny dwelling that almost squatted on the road itself, seemed to apologise for the insignificance of its mother-house.

“Slow up, Carl. Let’s look this place over,” called Mrs. Fabian.

The automobile came to a stop and the ladies leaned out to inspect the possibilities in such an old place. A girl of ten came around the corner of the box-house and stood gazing at the people in the car.

Carl seemed to be no novice in this sort of outing, and he called to the girl: “Hey! Is your mudder home?”

The girl nodded without saying a word.

“All right! Tell her to come out, a minute.”

Mrs. Fabian hastily interpolated with: “Oh, we’d better go in and ask for a drink, Carl.”

Carl laughed. “Just as you say, Missus. But dese farmer people don’t stand on fussin’. You’se can ask her right out if she wants to sell any old thing she’s got in the attic or cellar.”

“How do you know?” asked Polly, smilingly.

“’Cause Mr. Dalken got the fever of collectin’ after you folks went to Urope. And many a time I’ve sat and laughed at his way of getting things.”

“Oh! That’s why you knew where to drive us, eh?” said Eleanor.

“No, ’cause he never come this road, yet. He mapped it out, once, and said he would try it some day. That’s why he told me which road to foller today.”

The girl had disappeared but was coming back by this time. She climbed upon the picket gate and hung over it, as she called out: “My ma’s kneadin’ bread an’ can’t get out, this minit. She says if you want somethun, fer you to come in and see her!”

This invitation sufficed for all five to instantly get out of the car and lift the latch on the gate. The girl never budged from her perch, but permitted the visitors to swing her back as the gate was opened.

“Go right to the side door,” advised she, holding on to the pickets.

As invited, the collectors went to the side door and Mrs. Fabian knocked timidly. “Come in!” said a shrill voice from within.

The lady of the house had plump arms elbow-deep in dough. She glanced up and nodded in a business-like manner. “Did yer come fer fresh aigs?” asked she, punching the dough positively.

“If you have any for sale, I should like to take a dozen,” returned Mrs. Fabian, politely. Polly and Dodo stared in surprise at their chaperone, but Eleanor and Nancy comprehended at once, why this reply was made.

“Wait a minute, will yuh, and I’ll get this job off my hands afore I go fer the aigs.”

Eleanor laughed humorously as she remarked: “It looks like dough on your hands.”

The woman laughed appreciatively, while the others smiled. “That’s right! It’s dough, all right. I s’pose you folks are from nearby, eh?”

“Not very far away,” returned Mrs. Fabian. “We are out on a pleasure jaunt this morning, but I saw your farm and so we decided to ask your little girl if you were in.”

“That’s right! I tole my man to put a sign out on the letter-box fer passers-by to see how I had aigs to sell; but he is that procrastinatin’—he puts off anythun’ ’til it’s too late.”

The woman was scraping the bits of dough from her hands as she spoke, and this done, she sprinkled flour over the top of the soft lump in the pan and covered it with a piece of old linen cloth. As she took it to a warm corner behind the stove, she added: “Do you’se know! Abe was late fer our weddin’. But I knew him for procrastinatin’, even in them days, so I made everyone wait. He come in an ’nour behind time, sayin’ he had to walk from his place ’cause his horse was too lame to ride. That’s Abe all over, in everythun.”

The house-keeper finished her task and turned to her callers. “Now then! Do yuh like white er brown aigs?”

“White ones, please,” returned Mrs. Fabian.

The woman went to the large storeroom off the kitchen and counted out a dozen eggs in a box. When she came back she held them in one hand while waiting for payment, with outstretched other hand.

“That’s a fine sofa you’ve got in the next room,” remarked Mrs. Fabian, pretending not to notice the open palm.

“Yeh, d’ye know, I paid fifteen dollars jus’ fer that red plush alone?” declared she, going to the door and turning to invite her visitors to come in. The box of eggs was forgotten for the time.

The girls followed Mrs. Fabian to the best room that opened from the large kitchen, and to their horror they saw that the sofa referred to was a hideous Victorian affair of walnut frame upholstered in awful red mohair plush.

But Mrs. Fabian made the most of her optics the moment she got inside the room. Thus it happened that she spied a few little ornaments on the old mantel-shelf.

“What old-fashioned glass candle-sticks,” said she, going over to look at the white-glass holders with pewter sockets.

“Ain’t they awful! I’ve told Abe, many a time, that I’d throw them out, some day, and get a real nice bankit lamp fer the center table,” returned the hostess.

“And won’t he throw them away?” asked Mrs. Fabian, guilelessly.

“He says, why should we waste ’em, when they comes in so handy, in winter, to carry down cellar fer apples. He likes ’em cuz he onny paid a quarter fer ’em an’ a glass pitcher, at an auction, some miles up the road. But that wuz so long ago we’ve got our money’s wuth outen them. Now I wants a brass lamp an’ he says I’m gettin’ scandalous in my old age—awastin’ money on flim-flams fer the settin’ room. He says lamps is fer parlor use.”

Her repressed aspirations in furnishings made the woman pity herself, but Mrs. Fabian took advantage of the situation.

“I’ve needed a pair of candle-sticks for some time, and I’ll exchange a lamp for your auction bargain which you say has paid for itself, by this time.”

“What! Don’t you want your lamp?” exclaimed the lady, aghast at such a statement.

“Well, I have no further use for one, and it would look lovely on your marble-top table,” returned Mrs. Fabian.

“Well, well! How long will it take you to get it from home?” asked the woman, anxiously.

“If you really wish to get rid of the candle-sticks and jug, I’ll leave the quarter you paid originally for them and go for the lamp at once. Maybe I can be back in an hour’s time. I’ll pay for the eggs, too, and leave them until I come back,” explained Mrs. Fabian, graciously.

Without wasting an extra word or any precious time, the owner of the rare old candle-sticks wrapped them in a bit of newspaper and went for the glass pitcher. Mrs. Fabian had no idea of the extra item being worth anything, but she included it, more for fun, than anything else. But once they saw the tiny glass jug with Sheffield grape-design on its sides, they all realized that here was a wonderful “find.”

Mrs. Fabian seemed uneasy until she had the paper package in her hand and had paid the twenty-five cents for the three pieces of glassware. Then Eleanor made a suggestion.

“Why couldn’t we wait here, Mrs. Fabian, and look at some of the old china the lady has in this cupboard, while you go for the lamp. There’s no sense in all of us going with you.”

“That’s a good plan, if Mrs.——” Nancy waited for the lady to mention her name.

“I’m Mrs. Tomlinson,” said she, politely.

“If Mrs. Tomlinson is not too busy to show us her dear old house,” added Nancy.

“All right, girls. Is that satisfactory?” asked Mrs. Fabian. “How does it appeal to you, Mrs. Tomlinson?”

“Oh, now that that bread is risin’, I’ve got time to burn,” declared the lady, independently.

“All right. We’ll visit here while you get the lamp,” agreed the girls, deeply concerned to know where their chaperone would find a lamp such as Mrs. Tomlinson craved.

Mrs. Fabian left, and invited the child swinging on the gate to drive with her as far as Stamford. The little girl, pleased at the opportunity, ran for her bonnet and told her ma of the wonderful invitation.

Mrs. Tomlinson signified her consent to Sarah’s going, and then gave her full attention to showing her company the house. “You musn’t look at the dirt everywhere, ladies,” began she, waving a hand at the immaculate corners and primly-ordered furniture.

“Now come and see my parlor, girls. I’m proud of that room, but we onny use it Sundays, when Sarah plays the melodian and we sings hymns. Now an’ then some neighbors come in evenin’s, fer a quiltin’-bee in winter; and I uses it fer a minister’s call, but there ain’t no way to het the room an’ it’s all-fired cold fer visitin’.”

Polly thought of the ranch-house at Pebbly Pit as Mrs. Tomlinson described the cold winter evenings, and she smiled at the remembrance of how she used to undress in the kitchen beside the roaring range-fire, and then rush breathlessly into her cold little room to jump between the blankets and roll up in them to sleep.

Eleanor laughed outright at the picture of a visiting dominie sitting on the edge of a chair with his toes slowly freezing, while his parishioners tried in quaking tones and with teeth chattering to entertain him.

But Mrs. Tomlinson paid no heed to their laughter, for she was in her glory. “Ain’t this some room?” demanded she, pulling the shades up to give enough light to admire the place.

A stained cherry parlor suite of five pieces upholstered in cheap satin damask, with a what-not in one corner, and an easel holding a crayon portrait of Abe and his bride at the time of their wedding, in the other corner, graced this best room. A few cheap chromos flared against the gorgeous-patterned wall-paper, and a mantel-shelf was crowded with all sorts of nick-nacks and ornaments. Polly seemed drawn to this shelf, the first thing, while the other girls glanced around the parlor and felt like laughing.

“Won’t you sit down, a minute?” invited the hostess, but her tone suggested fear lest they soil the damask with their dust-coats.

Polly had made a discovery in that moment she had to look over the motley collection on the shelf.

“This is a nice tray you have standing against the wall,” said she, using Mrs. Fabian’s tactics to interest the hostess.

“Yes, that’s another auction bargain. When Abe fust got it, the day I went fer that oak side-board, I got mad. But I’ve used it a lot sence then, fer lemonade and cookies, when comp’ny comes to visit all afternoon. And I feels made up, I kin tell you, when I brings that tray in like all society does.” Mrs. Tomlinson chuckled to herself.

Polly examined the tray and believed it a rare one. It was oval in shape, and had a stencilled rim in a conventional design. The coloring was exquisite, and the central design was a wonderful basket over-flowing with gorgeous fruit. The touches of gold on the decorations was the beauty-point of the unusual object.

“I’ve always wanted just such a tray, too. I wonder if you know anyone who has one and will sell it to me. I’d drive a long ways to go to an auction such as you say you attended, when you bought this tray,” said Polly, trying to act indifferent.

“Laws-ee, Miss! I see’d trays sold at mos’ every country auction I goes to. I’d jes’ as soon sell that one to you, if you like it, but maybe you’d think I was askin’ too much if I was to tack on the cost of time I lost that day. I never got a chanst to bid on the oak side-board, ’cause a city man felt so mad at Abe fer buyin’ the tray, that he run up the side-board out of spite, when he found we wanted it. Ef he’d onny a said he wanted the old tray he’d cud have had it an’ welcome. But he never told us. The neighbor who finally got the side-board laffed an’ told Abe why the man did the trick. The man told him he’d double-crossed us that way.”

Polly would have offered the woman the full value of the fine stencilled tray, but Eleanor hurriedly spoke for her.

“How much was the tray with the cost of time tacked on?”

“Well, it won’t be fair to charge all afternoon, ’cuz I had a good time with my neighbors what met at that vendue. But Abe lost three hours’ work on the corn that day and that is wuth sixty cents an ’nour, anyway. Tack that on to thirty-five cents fer the tray, an’ you’ve got it.”

Mrs. Tomlinson started counting laboriously on her fingers and ultimately reached the same total as the girls had found five minutes before. So Polly paid over the munificent sum to the lady’s delight, and took possession of the tray.

“Ef I onny had some other old things you’d like to get, I would almost have enough money to buy a swell glass lemonade set I saw down to Stamford one day. It had a glass tray under it and a dozen painted glasses and a fine glass pitcher—all fer two ninety-eight.”

Almost before the lady had ended her words of her secret ambition, the four girls had pounced upon various things found on the shelf. Eleanor had an old glass toddy-mug with a lid, which was used for a match-holder in the parlor.

Nancy selected a small oil lamp with a brass base and stem, and a lovely-shaped glass shade. Mrs. Tomlinson informed her it was another auction bargain that cost fifty cents. Being so expensive they put it on the parlor mantel instead of using it.

Dodo yearned to possess an old afghan she saw on the settee of the suite of furniture, but she feared to say so. Finally she summoned courage enough to offer the lady a price for it that caused Mrs. Tomlinson a failure about the heart.

“My goodness’ sakes alive! That’s ten times more’n the wool ever cost when the thing was new. Take it! Take it, quick, ef you really mean it!”

The girls laughed wildly, for Dodo took it quickly and paid the price offered to the consternation of the sales-woman. “Well,” gasped she, at last, “you must have some family-past what has to do with knitted covers, is all I can say to explain you!”

By the time the inspection of the house was over, Mrs. Fabian returned with just such a brass pedestal banquet lamp as Mrs. Tomlinson had secretly envied and long hoped for. Such joy and pleasure as she took in selecting a clean crocheted mat to spread on the cold marble slab of the center table, and then place thereon her vision come true, was worth all the trouble Mrs. Fabian had had in finding the lamp at a second-hand shop at Stamford; but later when that wise collector examined her old candle-sticks and pitcher, she felt a hundred times repaid for the lamp—as she truly was.

The merry collectors started home that afternoon, after enjoying the picnic luncheon beside a brook in the woods back of Stamford, with their hopes pitched high for future successes in collecting.

Mr. Dalken heard from Carl about the successful quest that day, and telephoned to the Fabians, that evening. The Ashbys had hurried over when they heard of the pieces secured at the farm-house, and were present when Mr. Dalken questioned the girls all about their “find.”

“Now we’re dying to start again, Mr. Dalken, and hunt up other trophies,” said Polly, in conclusion.