"Hit's only Hoyle makin' his traps." She sighed, then slowly and tenderly untied the parcel and placed in his hands two small leather-bound books. Tied to one by a faded silk cord which marked the pages was a thin, worn ring of gold. "That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but when I took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed, bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I took the lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war my gran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tell what they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used to make out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, he done." It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it, but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" was unlimited. "What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silently examined her treasure, the true significance of which she so little knew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the books to the light. The print was fine, even, and clear. "What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?" David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for money, you know." "No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?" "Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years old." "Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heap by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek--that thar be heathen. Hain't hit?" David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes." "What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent. "They are explanations and comments, written here on the margin--see?--with a fine pen." "His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?" "They are very old poems written long before this country was discovered." "An' that must 'a' been before the Revolution. His grandpaw fit in that. The' is somethin' more in thar. I kept hit hid, fer Farwell, he war bound to melt hit up fer silver bullets. He 'lowed them bullets war plumb sure to kill. Reckon you can find hit? Thar 'tis." Her eyes shone as Thryng drew out another object also wrapped in gingham. "Hit's a teapot, I guess, but Farwell, he got a-hold of hit an' melted off the spout to make his silvah bullets. That time I hid all in the box an' put on the bolt an' lock whilst he war away 'stillin'. The' is one bullet left, but I reckon Frale has hit." David took it from her hand and turned it about. "Surely! This is a treasure. Here is a coat of arms--but it is so worn I can't make out the emblem. Was this your husband's also? Is there anything else?"