She closed the door, and addressed the house, apparently empty and
still. "He's gone!" she said, speaking rather loudly, "Don 'Lonzo,
he's gone, and you can come out. I expect you're hid somewheres
about here, for I didn't hear you go out."

There was no sound. She opened the door of the ground-floor bedroom
and looked in. All was tidy and pleasant as usual. Every mat lay in
its place; the chairs were set against the wall as she loved to see
them; the rows of books, the shelves of chemicals, at which she
hardly dared to look, and which she never dared to touch for fear
something would "go off" and kill her instantly, the specimens in
their tall glass jars, the case of butterflies, all were in their
place; but there was no sign of life in the room, save the canary in
the window.

"Deacon Bassett's gone!" she said, speaking to the canary.

There was a scuffling sound from under the bed; the valance was
lifted, and a head emerged cautiously.

"I tell you he's gone!" repeated Mira Pitkin, rather impatiently.
"Come out, Don Alonzo! There! you are foolish, I must say!"

The head came out, followed by a figure. The figure was that of a
boy of twelve, but the head belonged to a youth of seventeen. The
rounded shoulders, the sharp features, the dark, sunken eyes, all
told a tale of suffering; Don Alonzo Pitkin was a hunchback.

His pretty, silly mother had given him the foolish name which seemed
a perpetual mockery of his feeble person. She had found it in an old