embrasure of the little window, whence alone to gain a glimpse of the
lower world, while from the floor I could see heaven through six
skylights, deep framed in books. As far back as I can remember, it was my
care to see that the inside of their glass was always bright, so that sun
and moon and stars might look in.

The books were mostly in old and dingy bindings, but there were a few to
attract the eyes of a child--especially some annuals, in red skil, or
embossed leather, or, most bewitching of all, in paper, protected by a
tight case of the same, from which, with the help of a ribbon, you drew
out the precious little green volume, with its gilt edges and lovely
engravings--one of which in particular I remember--a castle in the
distance, a wood, a ghastly man at the head of a rearing horse, and a
white, mist-like, fleeting ghost, the cause of the consternation. These
books had a large share in the witchery of the chamber.

At the end of the room, near the gable-window, but under one of the
skylights, was a table of white deal, without cover, at which my uncle
generally sat, sometimes writing, oftener leaning over a book.
Occasionally, however, he would occupy a large old-fashioned easy chair,
under the slope of the roof, in the same end of the room, sitting silent,
neither writing nor reading, his eyes fixed straight before him, but
plainly upon nothing. They looked as if sights were going out of them
rather than coming in at them. When he sat thus, I would sit gazing at
him. Oh how I loved him--loved every line of his gentle, troubled
countenance! I do not remember the time when I did not know that his face
was troubled. It gave the last finishing tenderness to my love for him.
It was from no meddlesome curiosity that I sat watching him, from no
longing to learn what he was thinking about, or what pictures were going
and coming before the eyes of his mind, but from such a longing to