The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old janitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased. "What have you heard about The Locks?" he asked, after he stood beside the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she did not know; for she had expressed it all in the music. "Everything about The Locks, and a great deal about you," she answered. "I didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. Who talks about me?" "The people." "What do they say?" "I wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for twenty years." She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down the aisle. "Whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside, "there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me. You know, somehow, that I am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. Do the people say that?" "No." "Then how did you know it?" "I saw it in your manner. Anyone could see that." "A perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long in that house," he replied, pointing to The Locks. "When the stillness of night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe the wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people I have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. Did you ever hear about the room in The Locks into which no one is permitted to look?" "No." "Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that room,--it adjoins the one I occupy,--or look into it, or inquire with reference to it; and if I look ill at ease, it must be because of the house I occupy. I am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May I listen to you when you practise again?" "Certainly," she answered. "I could not possibly have an objection." She bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at Dorris with distrust. CHAPTER VI. PICTURES IN THE FIRE. Allan Dorris was seeing pleasant pictures in the cheerful fire which burned in his room, for he watched it intently from early evening until dusk, and until after the night came on.