“That’s what we’re looking for over there—a good book,” exclaimed the youth.
“Well, these are just a little too rich for your taste, I fancy,” I remarked. I scanned the titles behind the glass; I had not examined this case before. The shelves were not quite comfortably filled with bound volumes of learned periodicals and manuscripts in expensive leather covers, all having their titles impressed in bright gilt.
“Hullo, now there’s a thing.”
“What?” asked both juveniles at once, alert for something, even literature, to break the monotony of their existence.
I pointed to a cover with the words “MS. Elis Gruffydd” stamped upon it. “Evidently a copy of part of a historical manuscript I once read. If I remember rightly, it contains a passage about this house.”
“Gee whiz, it does?”
“You’re a wonder,” declared Lib, with her nose pressed against the glass. “Why, we had that one down and gave it the once over. It was all Welsh to us.”
“Oh, I mean in translation,” I hastily amended. “Don’t credit me with any knowledge of Cumraeg.”
“What kind of a rag?”
“The Welsh language,” I explained. “But I should think you’d find better hunting on those shelves over there.”