I am not what is called a man of imagination; it is my habit to exclude most things not capable of mathematical demonstration:  but I am not without a certain psychological insight, and I think I understood Mr. Jaffrey’s case.  I could easily understand how a man with an unhealthy, sensitive nature, overwhelmed by sudden calamity, might take refuge in some forlorn place like this old tavern, and dream his life away.  To such a man—­brooding forever on what might have been, and dwelling wholly in the realm of his fancies—­the actual world might indeed become as a dream, and nothing seem real but his illusions.  I dare say that thirteen years of Bayley’s Four-Corners would have its effect upon me; though instead of conjuring up golden-haired children of the Madonna, I should probably see gnomes and kobolds, and goblins engaged in hoisting false signals and misplacing switches for midnight express trains.

“No doubt,” I said to myself that night, as I lay in bed, thinking over the matter, “this once possible but now impossible child is a great comfort to the old gentleman,—­a greater comfort, perhaps, than a real son would be.  Maybe Andy will vanish with the shades and mists of night, he’s such an unsubstantial infant; but if he doesn’t, and Mr. Jaffrey finds pleasure in talking to me about his son, I shall humor the old fellow.  It wouldn’t be a Christian act to knock over his harmless fancy.”

I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey’s illusion would stand the test of daylight.  It did.  Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey was, so to speak, alive and kicking the next morning.  On taking his seat at the breakfast-table, Mr. Jaffrey whispered to me that Andy had had a comfortable night.

“Silas!” said Mr. Sewell, sharply, “what are you whispering about?”

Mr. Sewell was in an ill humor; perhaps he was jealous because I had passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey’s room; but surely Mr. Sewell could not expect his boarders to go to bed at eight o’clock every night, as he did.  From time to time during the meal Mr. Sewell regarded me unkindly out of the corner of his eye, and in helping me to the parsnips he poniarded them with quite a suggestive air.  All this, however, did not prevent me from repairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey’s snuggery when night came.

“Well, Mr. Jaffrey, how’s Andy this evening?”

“Got a tooth!” cried Mr. Jaffrey, vivaciously.

“No!”

“Yes, he has!  Just through.  Give the nurse a silver dollar.  Standing reward for first tooth.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise that an infant a day old should cut a tooth, when I suddenly recollected that Richard III. was born with teeth.  Feeling myself to be on unfamiliar ground, I suppressed my criticism.  It was well I did so, for in the next breath I was advised that half a year had elapsed since the previous evening.

“Andy’s had a hard six months of it,” said Mr. Jaffrey, with the well-known narrative air of fathers.  “We’ve brought him up by hand.  His grandfather, by the way, was brought up by the bottle—­” and brought down by it, too, I added mentally, recalling Mr. Sewell’s account of the old gentleman’s tragic end.