A few pictures hung upon the wall--family portraits, Abel thought; at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing, in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other.
The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing the model boy, equally devoted to study and play.

That singular sneering smile flitted over his face as he muttered, "The Reverend Gabriel Bennet!" There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments.

The bindings and the edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look.

The outer window-blinds were closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which was not hospitable nor by any means inspiring.
Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that gentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall.

Hiram had left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach, and rose just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his cap in his hand and his head slightly bent.
Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the visitor, "Well, Sir!" Abel bowed.
"Well, Sir!" he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified by something in the appearance of the youth.
"Mr.Burt," said Abel, "I am sure you will excuse me when you understand the object of my call; although I am fully aware of the liberty I am taking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many important cares which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir." "Did you come here to compliment me, Sir ?" asked Mr.Burt.