He closed the door, and we sat down and began to talk, and he said it was good and generous of me to come and see him, and he hoped I would be his friend, for he was lonely and so wanted companionship. His words made me ashamed—so ashamed, and I felt so shabby and mean, that I almost had courage enough to come out and tell him how ignoble my errand was and how selfish. He smiled most kindly and winningly, and put out his hand and patted me on the knee, and said,

“Don't mind it.”

I did not know what he was referring to, but the remark puzzled me, and so, in order not to let on, I thought I would throw out an observation—anything that came into my head; but nothing came but the weather, so I was dumb. He said,

“Do you care for it?”

“Care for what?”

“The weather.”

I was puzzled again; in fact astonished; and said to myself “This is uncanny; I'm afraid of him.”

He said cheerfully,

“Oh, you needn't be. Don't you be uneasy on my account.”

I got up trembling, and said,

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“I—I am not feeling well, and if you don't mind, I think I will excuse myself, and—”

“Oh, don't,” he said, appealingly, “don't go. Stay with me a little. Let me do something to relieve you—I shall be so glad.”

“You are so kind, so good,” I said, “and I wish I could stay, but I will come another time. I—well, I—you see, it is cold, and I seem to have caught a little chill, and I think it will soon pass if I go down and cover up warm in bed—”

“Oh, a hot drink is a hundred times better, a hundred times!—that is what you really want. Now isn't it so?”

“Why yes; but in the circumstances—”

“Name it!” he said, all eager to help me. “Mulled claret, blazing hot—isn't that it?”

“Yes, indeed; but as we haven't any way to—”

“Here—take it as hot as you can bear it. You'll soon be all right.”

He was holding a tumbler to me—fine, heavy cut-glass, and the steam was rising from it. I took it, and dropped into my chair again, for I was faint with fright, and the glass trembled in my hand.Ⓐ I drank. It was delicious; yes, and a surprise to my ignorant palate.

“Drink!” he said. “Go on—drain it. It will set you right, never fear. But this is unsociable; I'll drink with you.”

A smoking glass was in hisⒶ hand; I was not quick enough to see where it came from. Before my glass was empty he gave me a full one in its place and said heartily,

“Go right on, it will do you good. You areⒶ feeling better already, now aren't you?”

“Better?” said I to myself; “as to temperature, yes, but I'm scared to rags.”

He laughed a pleasant little laugh and said,

“Oh, I give you my word there's no occasion for that. You couldn't be safer in my good old Mother Katrina's protection. Come, drink another.”

I couldn't resist; it was nectar.Ⓐ I indulged myself. But I was miserably frightened andⒶ uneasy, and I couldn't stay;Ⓐ I didn't know what might happen next. So I said I must go. He wanted me to sleep in his bed, and said he didn't need it, he should be going to

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work pretty soon; but I shuddered at the idea, and got out of it by saying I should rest better in my own, because I was accustomed to it. So then he stepped outside the door with me, earnestly thanking me over and over again for coming to see him, and generously forbearing to notice how pale I was and how I was quaking; and he made me promise to come again the next night, I saying to myself that I should break that promise if I died for it. Then he said good-bye, with a most cordial shake of the hand, and I stepped feebly intoⒶ the black gloom—and found myself in my own bed, with my door closed, my candle blinking on the table, and a welcome great fire flaming up the throat of the chimney!

It made me gasp! But no matter, I presentlyⒶ sank deliciously off to sleep, with that noble wine weltering in my head, and my last expiring effort at cerebrationⒶ hit me with a cold shock:

“Did he overhearⒶ that thought when it passed through my mind —when I said I would break that promise if I died for it?”