orrow I will hunt up Cousin
Giles."

"Oh, that will be good of you."

He slipped his letter into the Latin book he had been going over, and
with a slight inclination of the head left the room. The hall was wide,
though it ended just beyond this door, where it led to the kitchen. The
woodwork was of oak, darkened much by the years that had passed over it.
The broad staircase showed signs of the many feet that had trodden up
and down.

Chilian's study was directly over the living-room, and next to the
sleeping-chamber. This part had been added to the main house, but that
was years ago. Bookshelves were ranged on two sides, but the windows
interfered with their course around, two on each of the other sides.
There was a wide fireplace between those at the west, and under them low
closets, with cushions--ancestors of useful window-seats. A large
easy-chair, covered with Cordovan leather, another curiously carved with
a straight narrow strip up the back, set off by the side carving. The
seat was broad and cushioned. Then one from France, as you could tell by
the air and style, that had been in a palace. A low splint rocker, and
one with a high back and comfortable cushions, inviting one to take a
nap.

The bookcases went about two-thirds of the way up and were ornamented by
articles beautiful and grotesque from almost every land, for there had
been seafaring men in the Leverett family, and more than one home in
Salem could boast of treasures of this sort.

Chilian stirred the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and
put on a fresh log. Then he settled himself in his chair and fingered
his letter in an absent way. The last time Anthony wrote he vaguely
suggested changes and chances and the uncertainty of life, rather
despondent for a brisk business man who was always seeing opportunities
at money-making. Had he been unfortunate in some of his ventures? And it
was odd in him to write so soon again. Not that they were ever frequent
correspondents.

He opened the letter slowly. It was tied about with a thread of waxed
silk and sealed, so he cut about the seal deliberately; he had a
delicate carefulness in all his ways that was rather womanly. Then
unfolding it, he began to read.

Was this what the previous letter had meant? Was Anthony Leverett
nearing the end, counting his days, finishing up his earthly work, and
delegating it to other hands? There was something pathetic in it, and
the trust in the uprightn