“Indeed,” said Charley, taking it from her hand with some curiosity, “it seems a curious ornament for a sitting-room.  May I ask whom it belonged to when it had flesh about it?”

“It is the skull of Swedenborg,” answered Mrs. Basil.  “A near relative of mine was a disciple of his, and left it to me as a most precious relic.”

“But how the deuce did he get possession of it?” inquired the young man.

“Well, not very fairly, as it seems to me,” smiled the landlady.  “While your mother sits down and rests herself—­for I am afraid you have frightened her a bit—­I’ll tell you the story.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Coe, faintly; “I shall be better presently; don’t mind me.”

“Well, the tale runs thus, Sir.  Swedenborg was buried in the vault beneath the Swedish embassador’s chapel in Princes Square, Ratcliffe Highway; and a certain theologian having once affirmed that all great philosophers took their bodies with them into the world of spirits, and that this gentleman had done the like, leave was obtained to settle this point by actual examination.  The body was found, and the theologian confuted, but no trouble was taken to solder on again the lid of the coffin.  A thieving Swede, attending a funeral of one of his countrymen in the same vault, remarked this circumstance, and stole the skull, with the intention of selling it to some disciple of the great philosopher’s; and I am ashamed to say that he found a purchaser in my respected relative:  and that’s how I became possessed of Swedenborg’s skull.”

“Very curious, though rather larcenous,” observed the young man, laughing.  “And this good lady over the mantel-piece, who is she?”

“That’s Joanna Southcott.  But, my good young gentleman, I will answer all your questions another time.  Your mother and I will have enough to do to arrange matters before your father comes home.  You will excuse my freedom, Sir.”

“Certainly,” said Charley, rather amused than otherwise with the landlady’s bluntness.  “I know I’m in the way just now; so I’ll step out for half an hour or so.  I am sorry I frightened you, dear mother.”

He stooped and kissed her fondly; and then, with a smile and a nod at Mrs. Basil, stepped into the little passage and out of doors, and, whistling, passed the window down the street.

“Your son has a light heart,” said Mrs. Basil, looking at Harry very earnestly.  “How old is he?”

“Eighteen—­or a little less.”

“He looks his age at least,” observed the other, emphatically.

“Yes; dark people always do.”

“And your husband is dark, like him, I remember.”

“Yes; his complexion is swarthy, though he is not slim, like Charles.”

Mrs. Coe, still in the arm-chair into which she had first sunk, here closed her eyes; either the faintness of which she had complained was coming on again, or she did not wish to meet the other’s searching gaze.