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  with the lock. "Yes—your things," was all he said till the catch yielded finally, and he raised the cover to display the full contents to his companion's curious eyes.

"Oh—books!" she cried out, with a sudden, sweeping flush of comprehension, and darted her hand into the dusty pile and pulled out a well-worn copy of the Rubaiyat. Instinctively she clasped it to her.

"I thought so!" said the Youngish Man quizzically. "I thought that was one of your books.

His eyes narrowed, and his hands reached nerv ously to regain possession of the volume. Then he laughed.

"I, also, used to think that Life was made for me," he scoffed teasingly. "It's a glorious idea as long as it lasts! You take every harsh old happening and every flimsy friendship and line it with your own silk, and then sit by and say, 'Oh, is n't the World a rustly, shimmery, luxurious place! And all the time the happening is harsh, and the friendship is flimsy, and it's just your own perishable silk lining that does the rustle and the shimmer and the luxury act. Oh, I suppose that's