The outer door was already closed, and Peter felt that he was at the intruder's mercy. Nevertheless, there was something in this last speech, rough and imperative as it was, that gave him a little feeling of security, so far as he had been led to suspect any designs on his property on the part of his companion.
Without venturing upon any further remonstrance, which, it was clear, would prove altogether useless, he shuffled up stairs, in obedience to the stranger's command, yet not without casting back over his shoulder a look of apprehension, as if he feared an attack from behind.
His visitor, perceiving this, smiled, as if amused at old Peter's evident alarm.
Arrived at the head of the stairs, Peter opened the door into the apartment appropriated to his own use.
The stranger followed him in, and after a leisurely glance about the room, seated himself with some caution in a chair, which did not look very secure.
Peter placed the flickering candle upon the mantel-piece, and seated himself.
It was long, very long, since a visitor had wakened the echoes of the old house; very long since any human being, save Peter himself, had been seated in that room. The old man could not help feeling it to be a strange thing, so unaccustomed was he to the sight of any other human face there.
"It seems to me," said his visitor, dryly, taking in at a glance all the appointments of the room, "that you don't care much about the luxuries of life."
"I," said Peter, "I'm obliged to live very plain,—very plain, indeed,—because I am so poor."
"Poor or not," said the visitor, "you must afford to have a better fire while I am here. I don't approve of freezing."