"I don't mean a Sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the sitting-room," was the half scornful reply.
"Aunt Nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret."
"What kinds?"
"Oh, I don't know; stories, I believe, but not fit for me to read, mother says."
Nell rose eagerly. "Come, let us go back," she said, "I must see those books. But how came they there?"
Bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping over stumps and logs.
The major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the garret were stowed away boxes of goods—a medley of many odds and ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern.
The garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within doors by stormy weather, and Bess had made herself well acquainted with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself.
The books proved to be novels—"Claremont" complete in several volumes and an odd volume of "Peregrine Pickle."
Nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her bed-room. Books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as yet there was no regular mail.