There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments.  The bindings and the edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look.  The outer window-blinds were closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which was not hospitable nor by any means inspiring.

Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that gentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall.  Hiram had left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach, and rose just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his cap in his hand and his head slightly bent.

Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the visitor,

“Well, Sir!”

Abel bowed.

“Well, Sir!” he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified by something in the appearance of the youth.

“Mr. Burt,” said Abel, “I am sure you will excuse me when you understand the object of my call; although I am fully aware of the liberty I am taking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many important cares which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir.”

“Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?” asked Mr. Burt.  “You’ve got some kind of subscription paper, I suppose.”  The old gentleman began to warm up as he thought of it.  “But I can’t give any thing.  I never do—­I never will.  It’s an infernal swindle.  Some deuced Missionary Society, or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing-good society, that bleeds the entire community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suck money out of me with your smooth face.  They’re always at it.  They’re always sending boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women that talk in a way to turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who have already turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can’t turn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people!  I tell you, young man, ’twon’t work!  I’ll, be whipped if I give you a solitary red cent!” And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by the table, and wiped his forehead.

Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it was ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if the indignation were the most natural thing in the world: 

“No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper—­”

“Not a subscription paper!” interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his head and staring at him.  “Why, what the deuce is it, then?”

“Why, Sir, as I was just saying,” calmly returned Abel, “it is a personal matter altogether.”

“Eh! eh! what?” cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, “what the deuce does that mean?  Who are you.  Sir?”

“I am one of Mr. Gray’s boys, Sir,” replied Abel.