wainscoted, uncheered by the cross-light from the hall, which was lost at
the turn, leading us away from the frequented parts of the house to that
misshapen and lonely room about which the traditions of the nursery and the
servants' hall had had so many fearful stories to recount.

I think my father had intended making some disclosure to me on reaching
this room. If so, he changed his mind, or at least postponed his intention.

He had paused before the cabinet, respecting the key of which he had given
me so strict a charge, and I think he was going to explain himself more
fully than he had done. But he went on, instead, to the table where his
desk, always jealously locked, was placed, and having lighted the candles
which stood by it, he glanced at me, and said--

'You must wait a little, Maud; I shall have something to say to you. Take
this candle and amuse yourself with a book meanwhile.'

I was accustomed to obey in silence. I chose a volume of engravings,
and ensconced myself in a favourite nook in which I had often passed a
half-hour similarly. This was a deep recess by the fireplace, fenced on the
other side by a great old escritoir. Into this I drew a stool, and, with
candle and book, I placed myself snugly in the narrow chamber. Every now
and then I raised my eyes and saw my father either writing or ruminating,
as it seemed to me, very anxiously at his desk.

Time wore on--a longer time than he had intended, and still he continued
absorbed at his desk. Gradually I grew sleepy, and as I nodded, the book
and room faded away, and pleasant little dreams began to gather round me,
and so I went off into a deep slumber.