"It will do very well," I said decidedly; for as to staying up there all alone till Kitty came back, it was not to be thought of, and folding my shawl around me, I stepped out into the hall, and with great satisfaction, shut the door of my room, and followed Mr. Rutledge through the hall and down the stairs. I kept pretty close to him, as we descended into the vast chilly-looking lower hall, but the coldness of its marble pavement, and the darkness of its heavy panels, only made the library, as we entered it, doubly attractive. The fire that would have made any other room uncomfortable at that season of the year, only warmed pleasantly the wide and lofty apartment. As Kitty said, "those great windows let in no end of air, and it took a power of wood to make it fit to stay in." And a "power of wood" now lay, "a solid core of heat" upon the hearth, casting a warm glow over the book cases that lined the walls, and the huge windows with their crimson drapery. The room delighted me; there was such an air of comfort and elegance about it, and the warm fire and bright lamp took from it the look of old-fashioned grandeur that is so comfortless, but so universal, in houses that have remained unchanged for a generation or so. "What a delightful room!" I could not help exclaiming, as my eyes wandered eagerly over the long rows of books, that stood one above another, from floor to ceiling, in every variety of binding, from the dusky calf of a hundred or so years ago, to the elegant morocco and gilt of to-day. "Yes, it is quite a delightful room for any one who likes books," said Mr. Rutledge, seating himself by the fire; "do you like them?" "That's rather a general question, sir," I said, walking up to the case on the right side of the fireplace, where some more modern-looking volumes tempted my curiosity. "So it is," answered my companion, pushing his chair a little further from the fire, and leaning back, shading his eyes with his hand. "It _is_ rather general, I admit; but to reduce it to a more particular and answerable shape, are you fond of reading?" "Some sort of books I like to read, sir." "What is the sort you like?" "Why," I said, rather puzzled, "I like--why I can't tell you exactly--but I like books that amuse me, that are not dry and stupid." "There are so many different criterions of dryness and stupidity," said Mr. Rutledge with an amused smile, "that your answer, I must confess, doesn't give me much light; some people might consider as highly interesting, you know, what you and I might look upon as hopelessly dry and stupid." I thought, as Mr. Rutledge said, "you and I," that it was very polite in him to put it so, but that he probably knew as well as I, that we had very different tastes, and that my favorite books were as unknown and indifferent to him, as his literary proclivities were, in all probability, elevated above, and incomprehensible to me.