“Do you mean my school-teaching?”

Then came a pause.  The conversation somehow had managed to leave them both somewhat at sea.  The Captain began again, in a different tone: 

“Peter, I wish you to remain here with me for another reason.  I am an old man, Peter.  Anything could happen to me here in this big house, and nobody would know it.  I don’t like to think of it.”  The old man’s tone quite painted his fears.  “I am not afraid of death, Peter.  I have walked before God all my life save in one or two points, which, I believe, in His mercy, He has forgiven me; but I cannot endure the idea of being found here some day in some unconsidered posture, fallen out of a chair, or a-sprawl on the floor.  I wish to die with dignity, Peter, as I have lived.”

“Then you mean that you want me to stay here with you until—­until the end, Captain?”

The old man nodded.

“That is my desire, Peter, for an honorarium which you yourself shall designate.  At my death, you will receive some proper portion of my estate; in fact, the bulk of my estate, because I leave no other heirs.  I am the last Renfrew of my race, Peter.”

Peter grew more and more amazed as the old gentleman unfolded this strange proposal.  What queerer, pleasanter berth could he find than that offered him here in the quietude of the old manor, among books, tending the feeble flame of this old aristocrat’s life?  An air of scholasticism hung about the library.  In some corner of this dark oaken library his philosophies would rest comfortably.

Then it occurred to Peter that he would have to continue his sleeping and eating in Niggertown, and since his mother had died and his rupture with Cissie, the squalor and smells of the crescent had become impossible.  He told the old Captain his objections as diplomatically as possible.  The old man made short work of them.  He wanted Peter to sleep in the manor within calling distance, and he might begin this very night and stay on for a week or so as a sort of test whether he liked the position or not.  The Captain waited with some concern until Peter agreed to a trial.

After that the old gentleman talked on interminably of the South, of the suffrage movement, the destructive influence it would have on the home, the Irish question, the Indian question, whether the mound-builders did not spring from the two lost tribes of Israel—­an endless outpouring of curious facts, quaint reasoning, and extraordinary conclusions, all delivered with the great dignity and in the flowing periods of an orator.

It was fully two o’clock in the morning when it occurred to the Captain that his new secretary might like to go to bed.  The old man took the hand-lamp which was still burning and led the way out to the back piazza past a number of doors to a corner bedroom.  He shuffled along in his carpet slippers, followed by the black-and-white cat, which ran along, making futile efforts to rub itself against his lean shanks.  Peter followed in a sort of stupor from the flood of words, ideas, and strange fancies that had been poured into his ears.