"We'd better scoot before I buy any more things by mistake. I don't want to be saddled with a five-guinea mirror or a hanging-lamp. I never felt so cross in all my life before. It's too disgusting for words. I grudge this five and six." And Lesbia pulled out her cherished pocket-money, paid the auctioneer's clerk, clutched her pile of books, and went to reclaim her bicycle. The specimens of literature which they stowed away in their baskets did not look of a very exhilarating character. They were faded, old-fashioned volumes with illustrations of people in antiquated costumes. Lesbia, in her disgust at missing the paint-box, was ready to leave them behind in the garden, but Kitty's common sense prevailed. "They're better than nothing. You don't want to throw your money absolutely away, you silly girl!" she counselled. "If _you_ won't take them _I_ shall. We'll each carry half. They're not very heavy after all. Cheerio! You look as if you'd lost a fortune." "I've lost a paint-box, and that's worse," snapped Lesbia, refusing all comfort. She rode back in very mournful spirits, mentally cataloguing the various useful or pleasurable articles she might have bought with the wasted five and sixpence, ignoring the obvious fact that she could not possibly have purchased them all. When the girls arrived home, Kitty told the story of the bargain as a supreme joke to the family circle. The Pattersons, though not artistic, were fond of books. They demanded to see lot 205. Nine shabby volumes were produced from the bicycle baskets and handed round for inspection. Mr. Patterson, rather a bibliographer in his way, rejected eight of them, but looked at the last with interest. He took a lens from his pocket and inspected the little wood cuts with which it was illustrated. "If I'm not mistaken these are by Bewick," he chuckled. "Lesbia, I believe you've got a bargain after all. I'm going up to London on Tuesday, and I'll take the book with me, and ask Petteridges about it. They're sure to know. Don't look too excited. It won't realize a fortune I assure you, and it may be worth nothing at all." "Oh, thanks! It's worth trying," gasped Lesbia gratefully. So on Tuesday Mr. Patterson slipped the small calf-bound volume into his coat pocket, and made a special call at a famous second-hand bookseller's in the Strand. He returned with good news for Lesbia. "Petteridge agreed that the illustrations are genuine Bewicks, rather rare ones too, in his earlier period. He said the book was worth £2, 10_s._, and offered me that much for it. I thought you'd want to sell it, so I said 'Done', and brought you home the notes. Here they are; lot 205 has been a profitable little 'deal' on your part." "O-o-o-h! And I _very_ nearly left it behind in the garden," exclaimed Lesbia, hardly able to believe her luck.