Outside the weather grew more boisterous.  The wind increased; the rain thrashed against the small windows, the leakage dropping on the floor like the slow ticking of a clock.

As the evening wore on I began to be uneasy, speculating as to the possibility of my reaching home that night.  To be entirely frank, I did not altogether like my surroundings or my host.  One moment he was like a child; the next there came into his face an expression of uncontrollable hate that sent a shiver through me.  But for the clear, steady gaze of his eye I should have doubted his sanity.

There was no sign of the return of the boat.  The old man became restless himself.  He said nothing, but every now and then he would peer through the window and raise his hand to his ear as if listening.  It was evident that he did not want me over night if he could help it.  This partly reassured me.

Finally, he laid down his pipe, put on his oilskin again, lighted a lantern, and pulled the door behind him, the wind struggling to force an entrance.

In a few minutes he returned with lantern out, the rain glistening on his white, bushy beard.  Without a word, he hung up his dripping garments, placed the lantern on the floor, and called the child into the adjoining room.  When he came back, he laid his hand on my shoulder and said, with a tone in his voice that was unmistakable in its sincerity:—­

“I am sorry, friend, but the boat cannot get back to-night.  You seem like a decent man, and I believe you are.  I knew some of your kind once, and I always liked them.  You must stay where you are to-night, and have Emily’s room.”

I thanked him, but hoped the weather would clear.  As to taking Emily’s room, this I could not do.  I would not, of course, disturb the child.  If there was no chance of my getting away, I said, I preferred taking the floor, with my trap for a pillow.  But he would not hear of it.  He was not accustomed, he said, to have people stay with him, especially of late years; but when they did, they could not sleep on the floor.

The child’s room proved to be the old cabin of the canal-boat, with the three steps leading down from the decks.  The little slanting windows were still there, and so were the bunks,—­or, rather, the lower one.  The upper one had been altered into a sort of closet.  On one side hung a row of shelves on which were such small knickknacks as a child always loves,—­a Christmas card or two, some books, a pin-cushion backed with shells, a doll’s bonnet, besides some trinkets and strings of beads.  Next to this ran a row of hooks covered by a curtain of cheap calico, half concealing her few simple dresses, with her muddy little shoes and frayed straw hat in the farther corner.

Above the head-board hung the likeness of a woman with large eyes, her hair pushed back from a wide, high forehead.  It was framed in an old-fashioned black frame with a gold mat.  Not a beautiful face, but so interesting and so expressive that I looked at it half a dozen times before I could return it to its place.