When they had brought all this old stuff together in the middle of the attic floor, Mrs. Corliss looked about and smiled through a face-veil of dusty cobwebs. “Well, John!” she said, “I believe my part of the legacy is not to be laughed at, either. We don’t want to keep these old things, for they have no history for us and they are not beautiful in themselves--the only two excuses I see for cherishing useless old things. Luckily there are plenty of people who think differently. I’ll go up to town to-morrow with a list of what you and I have found, and see what I can get for them at some reliable antique shop. Let’s keep it a secret, and surprise your father and Mary, if we have good luck with the venture. Shall we?” “Let’s!” cried John, clapping his hands. Just then out of the darkness crept Caliban, licking his chops, and looking very sly. “Now, don’t you go and tell Mary, Caliban!” charged John. “For this is our secret. You let me into it yourself, and you’ve got to be our partner now. Don’t you dare even to _purr_ about it!” Caliban did not promise; but he trotted downstairs before them very discreetly. And all that evening no one would have guessed by the manner of those three conspirators what a tremendous secret they were concealing in their hearts. John did not dare to look at his mother’s face, however, he was so bursting with importance. The next day Mrs. Corliss went to town on an errand which she explained rather vaguely to the rest of the family. She returned with a queer little old man with round shoulders and a white beard, who spoke English strangely and whose hands were not very clean. Mrs. Corliss took him straight up to the attic, which was the only part of the house he seemed anxious to visit. They stayed up there some time, and there was a great noise of pushing and rolling of furniture. When they came down, the little old man was looking very much pleased and rubbing his dirty hands together. And he went away still rubbing. Mrs. Corliss came to the supper-table with something which she fluttered triumphantly before the eyes of her bewildered family. “Hurrah!” she cried. “I’ve got it!” “What is it, Mother?” said Mary. “How much is it, Mumsie?” begged John at the same minute. “It is a check for a hundred dollars!” cried Mrs. Corliss. “It’s to pay the horrid bills. Hurrah!” “Where in the world did you get it?” asked Dr. Corliss. “Is it another of Mary’s bookmarks?” “Not a bit of it!” sang Mrs. Corliss. “Mary’s bookmark is all her own, safe in bank. I got this out of the attic--out of my furniture. Now, perhaps you will think something of my despised legacy. I sold only a few of the old things that are of so much less use to us than the space they occupy. There are plenty of them left, and the dealer is crazy to get them, too. We need be in no hurry to part with them. Aunt Nan’s attic is a perfect storehouse of treasures in that man’s eyes. It was Johnny who found it out.”