He found that the cabin which had delighted him so in
the glow of the afternoon, was even more enchanting
in the light of the morning. To the plain, every-day,
practical man it was but a long box with a door in the
middle of each side, front and back--one opening
into a sitting-room, which again opened into a bedroom
in which Ezra and his wife slept, with the windows
choked with geraniums, their red cheeks pressed
against the small panes, and the other opening into
a kitchen, connecting with a pantry and a long,
rambling woodshed. To our young Raphael the
simple cabin, from its homely sagging door to its
broken-backed roof, covered with rotting shingles,
was nothing less than an enchanted palace.

He remembered the shingles. He had reached up
in the night and touched them with his hands. He
remembered, too, the fragrance they gave out--a
hot, dry, spicy smell. He remembered also the dried
apples spread out on a board beside his bed, and the
broken spinning-wheel, and the wasp's nest. He was
sure, too, there were many other fascinating relics
stored away in this old attic. But for the sputtering
tallow-candle, which the night before was nearly
burnt out, he would have examined everything else
about him before he went to sleep.

Then his eye fell on the woodshed and the huge
pile of chips that Hank's axe had made in supplying
Samanthy's stove, and the rickety, clay-plastered