wide mahogany doors on either side stood closed in their white frames, a white stairway going up to a broad landing, and a huge fireplace with brass andirons. The place was warm, but musty. It had long been stripped and gutted. It was hung with cobwebs and powdered down with dust. There was a small portmanteau on the table, such as one's father used to carry, of black leather with little flaps and buckles. And beside it a blue iron stone jug and a dirty tumbler.
The man set down the candle and indicated the jug and the fireplace with a queer, ironical gesture.
"I offer you the hospitality of the cup and the hearth, Abner," he said.
"We will take the hearth, Storm," replied Abner, "if you please."
And we went over to the fireplace, took off our great coats, beat out the wet snow, and sat down on the old mahogany settle by the andirons.
"Every man to the desire of his heart and the custom of his life," said Storm.
He took up the jug, turned it on end, and drained its contents into the glass. There was only a little of the liquor left. It was brewed from apples, raw and fiery, and the odor of it filled the place. Then he held up the glass, watching the firelight play in the white-blue liquor.
"You fill the mind with phantoms," he said, turning the glass about as though it held some curious
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