“Sir,” said he, “excuse me; but instead of my accepting your invitation to be seated on the hearth there, I solemnly warn you, that you had best accept mine, and stand with me in the middle of the room.  Good heavens!” he cried, starting—­“there is another of those awful crashes.  I warn you, sir, quit the hearth.”

“Mr. Jupiter Tonans,” said I, quietly rolling my body on the stone, “I stand very well here.”

“Are you so horridly ignorant, then,” he cried, “as not to know, that by far the most dangerous part of a house, during such a terrific tempest as this, is the fire-place?”

“Nay, I did not know that,” involuntarily stepping upon the first board next to the stone.

The stranger now assumed such an unpleasant air of successful admonition, that—­quite involuntarily again—­I stepped back upon the hearth, and threw myself into the erectest, proudest posture I could command.  But I said nothing.

“For Heaven’s sake,” he cried, with a strange mixture of alarm and intimidation—­“for Heaven’s sake, get off the hearth!  Know you not, that the heated air and soot are conductors;—­to say nothing of those immense iron fire-dogs?  Quit the spot—­I conjure—­I command you.”

“Mr. Jupiter Tonans, I am not accustomed to be commanded in my own house.”

“Call me not by that pagan name.  You are profane in this time of terror.”

“Sir, will you be so good as to tell me your business?  If you seek shelter from the storm, you are welcome, so long as you be civil; but if you come on business, open it forthwith.  Who are you?”

“I am a dealer in lightning-rods,” said the stranger, softening his tone; “my special business is—­Merciful heaven! what a crash!—­Have you ever been struck—­your premises, I mean?  No?  It’s best to be provided;”—­significantly rattling his metallic staff on the floor;—­“by nature, there are no castles in thunder-storms; yet, say but the word, and of this cottage I can make a Gibraltar by a few waves of this wand.  Hark, what Himalayas of concussions!”

“You interrupted yourself; your special business you were about to speak of.”

“My special business is to travel the country for orders for lightning-rods.  This is my specimen-rod;” tapping his staff; “I have the best of references”—­fumbling in his pockets.  “In Criggan last month, I put up three-and-twenty rods on only five buildings.”

“Let me see.  Was it not at Criggan last week, about midnight on Saturday, that the steeple, the big elm, and the assembly-room cupola were struck?  Any of your rods there?”

“Not on the tree and cupola, but the steeple.”

“Of what use is your rod, then?”

“Of life-and-death use.  But my workman was heedless.  In fitting the rod at top to the steeple, he allowed a part of the metal to graze the tin sheeting.  Hence the accident.  Not my fault, but his.  Hark!”

“Never mind.  That clap burst quite loud enough to be heard without finger-pointing.  Did you hear of the event at Montreal last year?  A servant girl struck at her bed-side with a rosary in her hand; the beads being metal.  Does your beat extend into the Canadas?”