But when he came up the steps, and she opened the door for him-- There is nothing at all original about it, though they would dispute that statement vigorously, nothing that does not happen too many times to be worth telling, nothing that some persons do not know already, and others could not understand if it were told, about what they said and what they left unsaid as they lingered in that dark old hall. But when he started to open the door into the library, she checked him, saying in a whisper that John was there. “Well,” said this lion-hearted lover, “let’s go in and tell him.” She protested for a little, but finally yielded, and together they entered the library. They thought that after what he had seen that morning, he would understand, and certainly their faces as John looked at them should have told the story to any average intelligence. But John had once before narrowly escaped a disastrous blunder through too confidently judging from appearances, and experience had made him cautious. So he did nothing to meet them halfway, and Jack, whose valor seemed to have remained out in the dark hall, had to stammer out the news a word at a time until the last. When John fairly understood, his confusion exceeded that of Jack Dorlin. He glanced furtively at the hall door as though meditating flight. When he saw, however, that nothing happened,--he never could be induced to tell what he had expected that they would do,--he sat down again. But as soon as possible he changed the subject of conversation, evidently still regarding it as dangerous. “We’ve had quite a day of it,” he said, and they both assented cordially. “It seems to me that a literary fellow like you, Dorlin, might write up that time-lock business into a pretty good story.” Jack said yes again, but this time more vaguely. “Of course,” the Banker hastened to add, “you’d have to fix it up a little. You could have them blow the vault open with dynamite and kill the villain.” Dick’s hand stole into a larger one that had hidden itself under the fold of her skirt. “Come and play for me, Jack, until dinner-time,” she said; then turning to the Banker, she added, “Don’t you feel like some music, too?” But he understood. “No--no--run along,” he said, and laughing they slipped away and left him alone in the library. AT YOU-ALL’S HOUSE By JAMES NEWTON BASKETT Introduction by Hamilton Wright Mabie Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 “The book is an idyl of the fields and a study of human character as well, ... a nature study whose completeness and insight show that the author possesses the soul of the true artist.”--_The Daily Eagle_, Brooklyn. “The tale is restful, ... a simple story told admirably.... Insensibly in reading this charming tale one falls into the mood of the out-of-doors, and the story comes out of the rush of events as gratefully as a cool breeze into an overheated room.”--_The Courier_, Buffalo.