“Tom, I never knew that there was a name on the telescope; the name must not be known, that’s the truth; you shall have it this evening, but you must go away now—­do, that’s a dear good boy.”

The widow turned to walk into the back parlor, with the telescope in her hand, and I obeyed her injunctions in silence and wondering.  That there was a mystery about her was certain, and I felt very sorrowful, not that I did not know the secret, but that I could not be of service to her.  That evening the telescope was brought to my mother’s house by fat Jane.  I percieved that the portion of the brass rim upon which the name had been cut with a knife, for it had not been engraved, as I thought, had been carefully filed down, so that not a vestige of the letters appeared.

The next morning I was down at the steps long before breakfast, that I might try my new present.  Bill Freeman was there, and he showed me how to adjust the focus.  I amused myself looking at the vessels which were working up and down the Reach, and so much was I delighted that I quite forgot how time passed, and lost my breakfast.  Every one asked to have a peep through the telescope, and every one declared that it was an excellent glass; at last Spicer came up to where I stood.

“Well, Jack,” said he, “what have you there—­a spy-glass?  Let’s have a look; I’m a good judge of one, I can tell you.”

I handed the telescope over to him; he looked through it for some time.

“A first-rate glass, Jack” (I was oftener called Jack than Tom at that time); “I never knew but one equal to it.  Where did you get it?”

I don’t exactly know why, but perhaps the mystery evident in the widow, and the cautions I had received against Spicer, combined together, induced me not to answer the question.

“It’s odd,” observed Spicer, who was now examining the outside of the telescope; “I could almost swear to it.”  He then looked at the small brass rim where the name had been, and perceived that it had been erased.  “Now I’m positive!  Jack, where did you get this glass?”

“It was made a present to me,” replied I.

“Come here,” said Spicer, leading me apart from the others standing by.  “Now tell me directly,” and Spicer spoke in an authoritative tone, “who gave you this glass?”

I really was somewhat afraid of Spicer, who had gained much power over me.  I dared not say that I would not tell him, and I did not like to tell a lie.  I thought that if I told the truth I might somehow or another injure Mrs. St. Felix, and I therefore answered evasively, “It was sent to me as a present by a lady.”

“Oh!” replied Spicer, who had heard of Sir Hercules and his lady, “so the lady sent it to you?  It’s very odd,” continued he; “I could take my oath that I’ve had that glass in my hand a hundred times.”

“Indeed!” replied I.  “Where?”

But Spicer did not answer me; he had fallen into one of his dark moods, and appeared as if recalling former events to his mind.  He still kept possession of the glass, and I was afraid that he would not return it, for I tried to take it softly out of his hand, and he would not let go.  He remained in this way about a minute, when I perceived my father and Ben the Whaler coming up, at which I was delighted.