“But please, wouldn’t one starve or smother in that place down cellar?”
“From the narrow space under the arches, I am told there led a long, underground passage-way, which came to the surface within a quarter of a mile of the house. I always fancied it was in the pasture, but never could find it. This end was tightly closed up—if indeed the whole passage-way was not an empty tale—years before I was born.”
“And what has become of the chimney?”
“It was taken out as useless and unsafe, when I was a boy. A few years ago it occurred to me to wall in and fit up the space as a little study. The ordinary entrance is from the sitting-room closet, only ten feet from where you sit now. That is the way your aunt Puss came in.”
The girls gave a relieved laugh as the vague terrors of the winding and shadowy halls melted.
“It’s as cosey as it can be,” said Kittie, stroking one of her namesakes, and glancing over the books, the writing desk in one corner, and the dancing flames.
“But the rags, the rags!” cried Bess. “You said you only burned rags, Uncle. Now I’ve caught you!”
“Randolph,” remarked Mr. Percival, without directly answering her question, “will you please hand me that small book on the third shelf behind you—no, the next—that’s it.”
He ran the leaves over rapidly, and handed the book back, open, to the boy. “Please read that verse. The writer, who you will see is Mr. Trowbridge, is supposed to be searching the woods for a bird whose song he has just heard.”
Randolph turned his back a little to the fire, as he lay on the bear-skin, and read as follows: