her private consumption. He enjoyed late and hot suppers, and why
not she? Thanks to this persuasion, the coffee was strong, clear,
and boiling, the oysters done to a turn, and smoking from the
saucepan.

Taking the tray from him, with a gracious "Thank you! This is just
as it should be," Mabel negatived his offer to carry it to her room,
and started up-stairs.

Mrs. Sutton followed with a lighted candle.

"Winston or no Winston, you shall not face that desperado alone,"
she said, obstinately. "There is no telling what he may do--murder
you, perhaps, or at least knock you down in order to escape. Winston
talks as if he were the captain of the forty thieves."'

"He is pretty well hors de combat now, at any rate," smiled Mabel,
but allowing her aunt to precede her with the light to the upper
floor. "And should he offer violence--scalding coffee may defend me
as effectually as Morgiana's boiling oil routed the gang. MY captain
had to be carried up-stairs by four servants, who left him upon a
pile of old mattresses in one corner of the room. Here we are!"

They were in a wide hall at the top of the house, the unceiled
rafters above their heads, carpetless boards beneath their feet.
Mabel set her waiter upon a worm-eaten, iron-bound chest, and went
further down the passage to get the key of the north room. Her light
footstep stirred dismal echoes in the dark corners; the wind
screamed through every crack and keyhole, like a legion of piping
devils; rumbled lugubriously over the steep roof. The one candle