“I have been a lover of books all my life,” returned the laird. “And they gather, they gather!” he added.
“Your love draws them,” said George.
“The storm is over, I think,” said the laird.
He did not tell his guest that there was scarcely a book on those shelves not sought after by book-buyers—not one that was not worth money in the book-market. Here and there the dulled gold of a fine antique binding returned the gleam of the candle, but any gathering of old law or worthless divinity would have looked much the same.
“I should like to glance over them,” said George. “There must be some valuable volumes among so many!”
“Rubbish! rubbish!” rejoined the old man, testily, almost hustling him from the room. “I am ashamed to hear it called a library.”
It seemed to Crawford, as again he lay awake in his bed, altogether a strange incident. A man may count his money when he pleases, but not the less must it seem odd that he should do so in the middle of the night, and with such a storm flashing and roaring around him, apparently unheeded. The next morning he got his cousin to talk about her father, but drew from her nothing to cast light on what he had seen.
CHAPTER IX. IN THE GARDEN.
Of the garden which had been the pride of many owners of the place, only a small portion remained. It was strangely antique, haunted with a beauty both old and wild, the sort of garden for the children of heaven to play in when men sleep.