All this Robert Falconer saw slowly revive on the palimpsest of his
memory, as he washed it with the vivifying waters of recollection.




CHAPTER II.

A VISITOR.

It was a very bare little room in which the boy sat, but it was his
favourite retreat. Behind the door, in a recess, stood an empty
bedstead, without even a mattress upon it. This was the only piece
of furniture in the room, unless some shelves crowded with papers
tied up in bundles, and a cupboard in the wall, likewise filled with
papers, could be called furniture. There was no carpet on the
floor, no windows in the walls. The only light came from the door,
and from a small skylight in the sloping roof, which showed that it
was a garret-room. Nor did much light come from the open door, for
there was no window on the walled stair to which it opened; only
opposite the door a few steps led up into another garret, larger,
but with a lower roof, unceiled, and perforated with two or three
holes, the panes of glass filling which were no larger than the
small blue slates which covered the roof: from these panes a little
dim brown light tumbled into the room where the boy sat on the
floor, with his head almost between his knees, thinking.

But there was less light than usual in the room now, though it was
only half-past two o'clock, and the sun would not set for more than
half-an-hour yet; for if Robert had lifted his head and looked up,