There was a short silence during which Molly kept her eyes on her work, while Amos stood silently beside the fire as if there was nothing more to be said. Finally Mr. Cabot knocked the ashes from his cigar and asked, with his pleasantest smile, “Do you think if one of these scenes involved the actions of another person than yourself, that person would also carry it out?” “I think so.” “That if you told me, for instance, of something I should do to-morrow at twelve o’clock, I should do it?” “I think so.” “Well, what am I going to do to-morrow at noon, as the clock strikes twelve?” [Illustration: It seemed a long five minutes] “Give me five minutes,” and with closed eyes and head slightly inclined, the young man remained leaning against the mantel without changing his position. It seemed a long five minutes. Outside, the tempest beat viciously against the windows, then with mocking shrieks whirled away into the night. To Molly’s excited fancy the echoing chimney was alive with the mutterings of unearthly voices. Although in her father’s judgment she placed a perfect trust, there still remained a lingering faith in this supernatural power, whatever it was; but she knew it to be a faith her reason might not support. As for Amos, he was certainly an interesting figure as he stood before them, and nothing could be easier at such a moment than for an imaginative girl to invest him with mystic attributes. Although outwardly American so far as raiment, the cut of his hair, and his own efforts could produce that impression, he remained, nevertheless, distinctly Oriental. The dark skin, the long, black, clearly marked eyebrows, the singular beauty of his features, almost feminine in their refinement, betrayed a race whose origin and traditions were far removed from his present surroundings. She was struck by the little scar upon his forehead, which seemed, of a sudden, to glow and be alive, as if catching some reflection from the firelight. While her eyes were upon it, the fire blazed up in a dying effort, and went out; but the little scar remained a luminous spot with a faint light of its own. She drew her hand across her brow to brush away the illusion, and as she again looked toward him he opened his eyes and raised his head. Then he said to her father, slowly, as if from a desire to make no mistake: “To-morrow you will be standing in front of the Unitarian Church, looking up at the clock on the steeple as it strikes twelve. Then you will walk along by the Common until you are opposite Caleb Farnum’s, cross the street, and knock at his door. Mrs. Farnum will open it. She will show you into the parlor, the room on the right, where you will sit down in a rocking-chair and wait. I left you there, but can tell you the rest if you choose to give the time.”