JUDGE PYNCHEON, while his two relatives have fled
away with such ill-considered haste, still sits in the old par-
lor, keeping house, as the familiar phrase is, in the absence
of its ordinary occupants. To him, and to the venerable
House of the Seven Gables, does our story now betake
itself, like an owl, bewildered in the daylight, and hasten-
ing back to his hollow tree.

The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while
now. He has not stirred hand or foot, nor withdrawn his
eyes so much as a hair's-breadth from their fixed gaze to-
wards the corner of the room, since the footsteps of Hep-
zibah and Clifford creaked along the passage, and the
outer door was closed cautiously behind their exit. He
holds his watch in his left hand, but clutched in such a
manner that you cannot see the dial-plate. How pro-
found a fit of meditation! Or, supposing him asleep,
how infantile a quietude of conscience, and what whole.
some order in the gastric region, are betokened by slumber
so entirely undisturbed with starts, cramp, twitches, mut-
tered dream-talk, trumpet-blasts through the nasal organ,
or any the slightest irregularity of breath! You must
hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whether he
breathes at all. It is quite inaudible. You hear the
ticking of his watch; his breath you do not hear. A most
refreshing slumber, doubtless! And yet, the Judge can-

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