answered for eyes, fostered this idea, which was a disquieting one.  On the wall hung two silver coffin-plates in a glass case, testifying that Freeborn Scraper, and Elmira his wife, had been duly buried, and that their coffins had presented a good appearance at the funeral.  But the glory of the room, in the boy John’s eyes, was the cabinet of shells which stood against the opposite wall.  He had once thought this the chief ornament of the world; he knew better now, but still he regarded its treasures with awe and veneration, and looked to see the expression of delight which should overspread the features of his new friend at sight of it.  What, then, was his amazement to see his new friend pass over the cabinet with a careless glance, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world!  Evidently, it was not shells that he had come to see; and the boy grew more and more mystified.  Suddenly the dark eyes lightened; the whole face flashed into keen attention.  What had the Skipper seen?  Nothing, apparently, but the cupboard in the corner, the old cupboard where Mr. Scraper kept his medicines.  The old man had sent John to this cupboard once, when he himself was crippled with rheumatism, to fetch him a bottle of the favourite remedy of the day.  John remembered its inward aspect, with rows of dusty bottles, and on the upper shelf, rows of still more dusty papers.  What could the Skipper see to interest him in the corner cupboard?  Something, certainly!  For now he was opening the cupboard, quietly, as if he knew all about it and was looking for something that he knew to be there.

“Ah!” said the Skipper; and he drew a long breath, as of relief.  “True, the words!  In the corner of the parlour, a cupboard of three corners, with bottles filled, and over the bottles, papers.  Behold the cupboard, the bottles, the papers!  A day of fortunes!” He bent forward, and proceeded to rummage in the depths of the cupboard; but this was too much for John’s conscience.  “I beg your pardon, sir!” he said, timidly.  “But—­do you think you ought to do that?”

The Skipper looked out of the cupboard for an instant, and his eyes were very bright.  “Yes, Colorado,” he said.  “I think I ought to do this!  Oh, very much indeed, my friend, I ought to do this!  And here,”—­he stepped back, holding something in his hand,—­“here, it is done!  No more disturbance, Colorado; I thank you for your countenance.

“Do we now make a promenade in the garden, to see your work?

“Yet,” he added, pausing and again looking around him, “but yet once more I observe.  This room,”—­it was strange, he did not seem to like the parlour any better than he had liked the kitchen—­“this room, to live in! a young person, figure it, Colorado! gentle, with desires, with dreams of beauty, and this only to behold!  For companion an ancient onion,—­I say things that are improper, my son!  I demand pardon!  But for a young person, a maiden to live here, would be sad indeed, do you think it?”