ondence in some central position more in the whirl of
things, whence one eye could be kept on the carriage-drive, while the
other was alert for malingering servants and marauding children. Those
aunts of a former generation--I sometimes felt--would have suited our
habits better. But even by us children, to whom few places were private
or reserved, the room was visited but rarely. To be sure, there was
nothing particular in it that we coveted or required. Only a few
spindle-legged, gilt-backed chairs,--an old harp on which, so the legend
ran, Aunt Eliza herself used once to play, in years remote,
unchronicled; a corner-cupboard with a few pieces of china; and the old
bureau. But one other thing the room possessed, peculiar to itself; a
certain sense of privacy--a power of making the intruder feel that he
_was_ intruding--perhaps even a faculty of hinting that some one might
have been sitting on those chairs, writing at the bureau, or fingering
the china, just a second before one entered. No such violent word as
'haunted' could possibly apply to this pleasant old-fashioned chamber,
which indeed we all rather liked; but there was no doubt it was reserved
and stand-offish, keeping itself to itself.

Uncle Thomas was the first to draw my attention to the possibilities of
the old bureau. He was pottering about the house one afternoon, having
ordered me to keep at his heels for company--he was a man who hated to
be left one minute alone,--when his eye fell on it. 'H'm! Sheraton!' he
remarked. (He had a smattering of most things, this uncle, especially
the vocabularies.) Then he let down the flap, and examined the empty
pigeon-holes and dusty panelling. 'Fine bit of inlay,' he went on: 'good
work, all of it. I know the sort. There's a secret drawer in there
somewhere.' Then as I breathlessly drew near, he suddenly exclaimed: 'By
Jove, I do want to smoke!' And, wheeling round, he abruptly fled for the
garden, leaving me with the cup dashed from my lips. What a strange
thing, I mused, was this smoking, that takes a man suddenly, be he in
the court, the camp, or the grove, grips him like an Afreet, and whirls
him off to do its imperious behests! Would it be even so with myself, I
wondered, in those unknown grown-up years to come?

But I had no time to waste in vain speculations. My whole being was
still vibrating to those magic syllables 'secret drawer'; and that
particular chord had been touched that never fails to thrill respons