They had talked on a variety of topics: of tarpon fishing in Florida; of amateur photography, in which the hostess was proficient, and of gardens; of the latest novels and some current inelegancies of speech. Some one spoke of the growing habit of feeing employés to do their duty. Another referred to certain breaches of trust by bank officers and treasurers, which occurring within a short time of one another had startled the community. This last subject begot a somewhat doleful train of commentary and gave the lugubrious their cue. Complaints were made of our easygoing standards of morality, and our disposition not to be severe on anybody; of the decay of ideal considerations and the lack of enthusiasm for all but money-spinning. “The gist is here,” reiterated one of the speakers: “we insist on tangible proof of everything, of being able to see and feel it--to get our dollar’s worth, in short. We weigh and measure and scrutinize, and discard as fusty and outworn, conduct and guides to conduct that do not promise six per cent per annum in full sight.” “What have you to say to John Baker?” said the host, breaking the pause which followed these remarks. “I take for granted that you are all familiar with his story: the newspapers have been full of it. There was a man who did not stop to measure or scrutinize.” A murmur of approbation followed, which was interrupted by Mrs. Caspar Green, a stout and rather languid lady, inquiring to whom he referred. “You know I never read the newspapers,” she added, with a decidedly superior air, putting up her eye-glass. “Except the deaths and marriages,” exclaimed her husband, a lynx-eyed little stockbroker, who was perpetually poking what he called fun at his more ponderous half. “Well, this was a death: so there was no excuse for her not seeing it,” said Henry Lawford, the host. “No, seriously, Mrs. Green, it was a splendid instance of personal heroism: a gate-keeper at a railway crossing in Pennsylvania, perceiving a child of four on the track just in front of the fast express, rushed forward and managed to snatch up the little creature and threw it to one side before--poor fellow!--he was struck and killed. There was no suggestion of counting upon six per cent there, was there?” “Unless in another sphere,” interjected Caspar Green. “Don’t be sacrilegious, Caspar,” pleaded his wife, though she added her mite to the ripple of laughter that greeted the sally. “It was superb!--superb!” exclaimed Miss Ann Newbury, a young woman not far from thirty, with a long neck and a high-bred, pale, intellectual face. “He is one of the men who make us proud of being men and women.” She spoke with sententious earnestness and looked across the table appealingly at George Gorham. “He left seven children, I believe?” said he, with precision. “Yes, seven, Mr. Gorham--the eldest eleven,” answered Mrs. Lawford, who was herself the mother of five. “Poor little things!”