As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;
Though watchful was he as watchful miser,
He never discovered my hero was there.
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,
How loud did they sound in young Abbott’s ear!
And when they were still, how the silence tingled!
How dim was the light!—yet why should he fear?
The night was before him, the shadows were dreary
As forth from his hiding-place he crept.
There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,