"This way, Sir," said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half turning
and studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to comprehend him
at a glance. "I will speak to him."

Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was draped
for the season in cool-colored chintz. There was a straw matting upon
the floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin,
and heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows. The tables and chairs
were of a clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of claws
clasping balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air.
The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polished
brass andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility
in supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently
bright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of
them. A few pictures hung upon the wall--family portraits, Abel thought;
at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing,
in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other.
The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing the
model boy, equally devoted to study and play. That singular sneering
smile flitted over his face as he muttered, "The Reverend Gabriel
Bennet!"

There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and
balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments. The bindings and the
edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look. The outer window-blinds
were closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which
was not hospitable nor by any means inspiring.

Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the
portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that