of paint, while it would certainly freshen up the place, would take something from its character.  For a second-hand bookseller who respects himself must present an exterior which has something of faded splendor, of worn paint and shabbiness.  Within the shop, books line the walls and cumber the floor.  There are an outer and an inner shop; in the former a small table stands among the books, at which Mr. James, the assistant, is always at work cataloguing, when he is not tying up parcels; sometimes even with gum and paste repairing the slighter ravages of time—­foxed bindings and close-cut margins no man can repair.  In the latter, which is Mr. Emblem’s sanctum, there are chairs and a table, also covered with books, a writing-desk, a small safe, and a glass case, wherein are secured the more costly books in stock.  Emblem’s, as must be confessed, is no longer quite what it was in former days; twenty, thirty, or forty years ago that glass case was filled with precious treasures.  In those days, if a man wanted a book of county history, or of genealogy, or of heraldry, he knew where was his best chance of finding it, for Emblem’s, in its prime and heyday, had its specialty.  Other books treating on more frivolous subjects, such as science, belles lettres, art, or politics, he would consider, buy, and sell again; but he took little pride in them.  Collectors of county histories, however, and genealogy-hunters and their kind, knew that at Emblem’s, where they would be most likely to get what they wanted, they would have to pay the market price for it.

There is no patience like the patience of a book-collector; there is no such industry given to any work comparable with the thoughtful and anxious industry with which he peruses the latest catalogues; there is no care like unto that which rends his mind before the day of auction or while he is still trying to pick up a bargain; there are no eyes so sharp as those which pry into the contents of a box full of old books, tumbled together, at sixpence apiece.  The bookseller himself partakes of the noble enthusiasm of the collector, though he sells his collection; like the amateur, the professional moves heaven and earth to get a bargain:  like him, he rejoices as much over a book which has been picked up below its price, as over a lost sheep which has returned into the fold.  But Emblem is now old, and Emblem’s shop is no longer what it was to the collector of the last generation.

It was an afternoon in late September, and in this very year of grace, eighteen hundred and eighty-four.  The day was as sunny and warm as any of the days of its predecessor Augustus the Gorgeous, but yet there was an autumnal feeling in the air which made itself felt even in streets where there were no red and yellow Virginia creepers, no square gardens with long trails of mignonette and banks of flowering nasturtiums.  In fact, you cannot anywhere escape the autumnal feeling, which begins about the middle of September.  It