ernoon. He had pulled out an old chest, the
sea-chest of a long dead Raven who had been marked with sea longing, as
it sometimes happens to those bred in the hills, and had run away and
become mate and captain. Raven had always been vaguely proud of him, and
so, perhaps, had other Ravens, for Old Crow, when he moved up here, had
brought the sea-chest with him, and his own books also were stowed away
in it. Old Captain Raven's were entirely consistent with his
profession--charts, a wonderful flat volume full of the starry heavens
and more enchanting to Raven than any modern astronomy; but Old Crow's,
in their diverse character, seemed to have been gathered together as it
happened, possibly as he came on them, in no sense an index of
individual taste. There were poets (strange company they made for one
another!) Milton, Ossian, Byron, Thompson, Herrick, and the Essays of
Montaigne, the Confessions of Rousseau. Also, the Age of Reason, which,
on the testimony of uncut leaves, had not been read. And there was a
worn, dog-eared Bible. Raven had never wanted to appropriate the books
so far as to set them with his own on the shelves. They seemed to him,
through their isolation, to keep something of the identity of Old Crow.
He believed Old Crow would like this. It was precious little earthly
immortality the old chap had ever got beyond the local derision, and if
Raven could please him by so small a thing, he would. He had them all
out on chairs and sat on the floor beside the chest, looking them over
idly until it began to grow dark and, realizing how early it was, he
glanced up at the windows and saw the veil of a fine falling snow. He
got up, left his books in disorder, and lighted the lamp. The fire had
been dying down and he kicked the sticks apart. It must die wholly so
that a fresh one would run no chance of catching the coals. Yet it was
unlikely she would come to-night. Tenney would be tired with his week's
work.

And just as he was making himself reasons, in a mechanical way, while he
put the room in order, there was a knock, quick, imperative, the door
was thrown open and there she was. She was about to shut the door, but
he ran before her. He did it and turned the key. Then he passed her and
hurried to the fire and with both hands heaped on cones and kindling
until it flared. While he did this she stood as still as a stone and
when, having his fire, he turned to her, he saw she had nothing on her
head and that the f