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.