The neighbors were very friendly, and there were so many pleasant new things in Crowfield that the family did not miss the pleasures they used to enjoy in the city, nor the pretty clothes and luxuries which were now out of the question. And Mary did not spend much time worrying about college. There would be time enough for that. After the finding of that hundred-dollar bill, Mary and John spent a great deal of time in opening and shutting the leaves of books in the library, hoping that they would come upon other bookmarks as valuable as that first one. But whether Aunt Nan had left the bill there by mistake, as Dr. Corliss imagined, or whether she had put it there on purpose, as Mary liked to think, apparently the old lady had not repeated herself. The only foreign things they found in the musty old volumes were bits of pressed flowers and ferns, and now and then a flattened bug which had been crushed in its pursuit of knowledge. John soon grew tired of this fruitless search. But Mary came upon so many interesting things in the books themselves that she often forgot what she was looking for. Many of the books had queer, old-fashioned pictures; some had names and dates of long ago written on the fly-leaf. In many Mary found that Aunt Nan had scrawled notes and comments--sometimes amusing and witty; sometimes very hard to understand. Mary loved her library. She had never before had a corner all to herself, except her tiny bedroom. And to feel that this spacious room, with everything in it, was all hers, in which to do just as she pleased, was a very pleasant thing. “Where’s Mary?” asked Katy Summers one afternoon, running into the Corliss house without knocking, as she had earned the right to do. “I think she is in the library,” said Mrs. Corliss, who was busy sewing in the living-room. “That is a pretty likely place in which to look nowadays, when she isn’t anywhere else!” “Shall I go there to find her?” asked Katy. “Yes, Dear; go right in,” said Mrs. Corliss. “She will be glad to see you, I am sure.” The door of the library was hospitably open. And Katy Summers, creeping up on tiptoe and peeping in softly, saw Mary with her thumb between the leaves of a book, kneeling before one of the bookshelves. “I spy!” cried Katy. “What’s the old Bookworm up to now? Or perhaps I ought to say, considering your position, what’s she _down_ to now?” Mary jumped hastily to her feet. “Hello, Katy,” she said cordially. “I was just looking up something. Say, Katy, do you know what fun it is to look up quotations?” “No,” said Katy, laughing. “I don’t see any fun in that. No more fun than looking up things in a dictionary.” “Well, it _is_ fun,” returned Mary. “I think I must be something like Aunt Nan. She loved quotations. Just look at this row of ‘Gems from the Poets.’ They’re full of quotations, Katy. I’m going to read them all, some time.” “Goodness!” cried Katy. “What an idea! I think poetry is stupid stuff, sing-song and silly.”