started to talk to me once more about being good. He did not get
very far, however, before the Professor turned to him and said:

"Oh, shut up!"

Mr. Snider raised his eyebrows, smiled his hideous smile, and
relapsed into silence. After a minute or two he went outside, and
walked slowly up and down the driveway, with his hands behind his
back. When the dishes were finished, the Professor lighted another
cigar, sat down at a table, and began to write and figure on a
piece of paper.

This wasn't very amusing to me, so I looked about to see if I
could find something to do. In a passage leading from the kitchen
to another room, I found a shelf which held some empty medicine
bottles, and four or five dusty books. I took the books down, one
after the other. There was "The Life of Rev. Thomas Miltimore,"--I
put that back on the shelf. There was "Leading Men of Rockingham
County,"--I put that back. Then there was a book of hymns, and
Foxe's "Book of Martyrs." I was about to take the latter to the
kitchen with me, and curdle my blood again with its ghastly
pictures, when I found another book under an old, yellow
newspaper. It was "The Rifle Rangers; or Adventures in Southern
Mexico by Captain Mayne Reid." The frontispiece, which was
protected by a torn and stained leaf of tissue paper, showed a
soldier in a tropical forest, being startled by a skeleton which
had apparently risen out of the ground. On the title-page someone
had written in pencil "A mity Good Book." Underneath, in another
handwriting, were the words, "you Bett!" This seemed well
recommended,--even if the name of the author hadn't been a strong