had been those of a mercantile sea-captain or of a wandering gentleman of leisure would have been hard to determine.  There was a neat walnut bookcase with well-filled shelves, on the top of which stood a large glass case containing a huge stuffed albatross, and just opposite was a small but exquisitely-carved Venetian cabinet adorned with grotesque heads of men and animals, and surmounted by a small square case in which was a beautifully-mounted specimen of the little spotted brown owl of Greece, the species so common among the ruins of the Acropolis.  On the mantelpiece were a small bronze clock, a quaint Chinese teapot and a pair of delicately-flowered Sevres vases.  On the table the engraved tooth of a sperm whale did duty as a paper-weight, a miniature gondola held an inkstand and pens, and a sprig of red coral with a sabre-shaped ivory blade formed the most beautiful paper-knife I ever saw.  A single oil-painting hung on the wall—­a finely-executed marine representing two stately ships becalmed near each other on a glassy sea under the glare of a tropical sun—­and in a corner, resting upon a light stand, the top of which was a charming Florentine mosaic, was a polished brass box containing a ship’s compass.  I had been from boyhood familiar with all these things, but I never tired of looking at them, especially at the albatross and the owl—­the former so suggestive of Coleridge and the unfathomable depths of the far-away Indian Ocean, and the latter always leading my thoughts away back to the fierce-eyed Athene and her Homeric compeers.

Uncle Joseph got up and unlocked the Venetian cabinet to put away the decanter, his invariable habit as soon as the second glass was filled.  As he did so there was a clink as of glass against glass, and the old gentleman hastily took out a small, dusty black bottle, examined it with great care and returned it with evident relief:  “I was afraid I had carelessly broken the last bottle of that precious Constantia which I brought with me from the Cape of Good Hope.  It is strange that no soil will grow that wine but that of one little vineyard under the South African sun.”

“Uncle Joseph, you never told me anything about your voyages.  But what are you keeping that wine for?” “To drink a welcome home to Joe when he returns from Europe next month.  You must dine with us the day after he gets back.  Will has still another year at Goettingen.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

“You spoke of my voyages just now:  have you never heard the story of my early life?”

“Never, Uncle Joseph,” I answered eagerly.  “Can’t you tell me all about it to-night?”

“Well, perhaps I may.  That bottle of wine suggested memories of a singular and sad incident, and the sound of that storm without recalls it all as if it were yesterday.  It happened on the homeward passage when I made my last voyage to the Cape, and I have never since looked at that Constantia without thinking of it.”