Presently we went in the house, after we had the wood and a pail of water.  The house was almost empty of furniture, and it was pretty dismal.  The kitchen was the only room they used downstairs,—­it contained a cook-stove, two tables, a couple of broken-down chairs, and some boxes set on end, for seats.  An old-fashioned kitchen clock, its hands broken off, stood on a shelf, silent.  But a handsome little glass and gold clock was ticking away in front of it.

The Professor joined us while we were kindling a fire in the stove.  He did not seem at all neglectful of his food, he inquired how soon supper would be ready, and suggested that we have some sausages in addition to what Mr. Snider was preparing to cook.  They sent me out to the shed for some more wood, and again to the well for another pail of water, so that we could wash our hands and faces at the sink.

We ate our supper in the kitchen, and as soon as the Professor finished eating he lighted a long cigar.  Mr. Snider did not seem to notice this, though it made me wonder why he did not tell his friend how many scoundrels he had known who had come to their downfall through using tobacco.  When the cigar was nearly gone, the Professor said he would wash the dishes, if I would help him wipe them.  I agreed, and we began the work.  Mr. Snider presently started to talk to me once more about being good.  He did not get very far, however, before the Professor turned to him and said: 

“Oh, shut up!”

Mr. Snider raised his eyebrows, smiled his hideous smile, and relapsed into silence.  After a minute or two he went outside, and walked slowly up and down the driveway, with his hands behind his back.  When the dishes were finished, the Professor lighted another cigar, sat down at a table, and began to write and figure on a piece of paper.

This wasn’t very amusing to me, so I looked about to see if I could find something to do.  In a passage leading from the kitchen to another room, I found a shelf which held some empty medicine bottles, and four or five dusty books.  I took the books down, one after the other.  There was “The Life of Rev. Thomas Miltimore,”—­I put that back on the shelf.  There was “Leading Men of Rockingham County,”—­I put that back.  Then there was a book of hymns, and Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs.”  I was about to take the latter to the kitchen with me, and curdle my blood again with its ghastly pictures, when I found another book under an old, yellow newspaper.  It was “The Rifle Rangers; or Adventures in Southern Mexico by Captain Mayne Reid.”  The frontispiece, which was protected by a torn and stained leaf of tissue paper, showed a soldier in a tropical forest, being startled by a skeleton which had apparently risen out of the ground.  On the title-page someone had written in pencil “A mity Good Book.”  Underneath, in another handwriting, were the words, “you Bett!” This seemed well recommended,—­even if the name of the author hadn’t been a strong recommendation in itself.  A faded legend on a fly-leaf showed that the book had been “Presented to Edward Rogers, on his Fourteenth Birthday, Jan’y 21st, 1852, By his Uncle Daniel.”