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Rh to his boot-heels;—some tender-souled elder son, I suppose.'

'Pierre,' said Isabel, 'this silence is unnatural, is fearful. The forests are never so still.'

'Because brick and mortar have deeper secrets than wood or fell, sweet Isabel. But here we turn again; now if I guess right, two more turns will bring us to the door. Courage, all will be well; doubtless he has prepared a famous supper. Courage, Isabel. Come, shall it be tea or coffee? Some bread, or crisp toast? We'll have eggs, too; and some cold chicken, perhaps.'—Then muttering to himself—'I hope not that, either; no cold collations! there's too much of that in these paving-stones here, set out for the famishing beggars to eat. No. I won't have the cold chicken.' Then aloud—'But here we turn again; yes, just as I thought. Ho, driver!' (thrusting his head out of the window) 'to the right! to the right! it should be on the right! the first house with a light on the right!'

'No lights yet but the street's,' answered the surly voice of the driver.

'Stupid! he has passed it—yes, yes—he has! Ho! ho! stop; turn back. Have you not passed lighted windows?'

'No lights but the street's,' was the rough reply. 'What's the number? the number? Don't keep me beating about here all night! The number, I say!'

'I do not know it,' returned Pierre; 'but I well know the house; you must have passed it, I repeat. You must turn back. Surely you have passed lighted windows?'

'Then them lights must burn black; there's no lighted windows in the street; I knows the city; old maids lives here, and they are all to bed; rest is warehouses.'

'Will you stop the coach, or not?' cried Pierre, now incensed at his surliness in continuing to drive on.