traits," returned Harlowe with a laugh.
"But come, you must not go without the champagne." He led the way to the
adjacent room, which proved to be only the ante-chamber of another, on
the threshold of which Thatcher stopped with genuine surprise. It was an
elegantly furnished library.

"Sybarite! Why was I never here before?"

"Because you came as a client; to-night you are my guest. All who enter
here leave their business, with their hats, in the hall. Look; there
isn't a law book on those shelves; that table never was defaced by a
title deed or parchment. You look puzzled? Well, it was a whim of
mine to put my residence and my work-shop under the same roof, yet so
distinct that they would never interfere with each other. You know the
house above is let out to lodgers. I occupy the first floor with my
mother and sister, and this is my parlor. I do my work in that severe
room that fronts the street: here is where I play. A man must have
something else in life than mere business. I find it less harmful and
expensive to have my pleasure here."

Thatcher had sunk moodily in the embracing arms of an easy chair. He was
thinking deeply; he was fond of books too, and, like all men who have
fared hard and led wandering lives, he knew the value of cultivated
repose. Like all men who have been obliged to sleep under blankets
and in the open air, he appreciated the luxuries of linen sheets and
a frescoed roof. It is, by the way, only your sick city clerk or your
dyspeptic clergyman who fancy that they have found in the bad bread,
fried steaks, and frowzy flannels of mountain picknicking the true art
of living. And it is a somewhat notable fact that your true mountaineer
or your gentleman who has been obliged to honestly "rough it," does not,
as a general thing, write books about its advantages, or implore their
fellow mortals to come and share their solitude and their discomforts.

Thoroughly appreciating the taste and comfort of Harlowe's library, yet
half-envious of its owner, and half-suspicious that his own earnest
life for the past few years might have been different, Thatcher suddenly
started from his seat and walked towards a parlor easel, whereon stood
a picture. It was Carmen de Haro's first sketch of the furnace and the
mine.

"I see you are taken with that picture," said Harlowe, pausing with the
champagne bottle in his hand. "You show your good taste. It's been much
admired. Observe how splendidly that firelight