But Bog's eyes passed them by. To an inquisitive
mind, there was something of interest to be seen and speculated over, in
the lighted windows of houses all about him. People could be seen eating
their late suppers, rocking by the fire, playing the piano, dancing,
taking a rubber at whist or euchre, or diverting themselves with other
recreations of winter house life. In one upper chamber, a physician was
presenting a child just born to the proud father. In another, there was
a mysterious spectacle, which a closer examination might have proved to
be the preparing of a dead body for the morrow's burial. But Bog saw
none of these sights.
His eyes sought for, and found immediately, as if by instinct, one
light, which, in his opinion, was the only one worth looking at on earth
or sky. It was a single bright gas jet, burning very close to a window
about six hundred feet distant from him in an air line. Several tall
chimneys of intervening houses rose almost between him and this light,
and, perhaps, their dark, spectral shapes aided him in identifying it so
readily.
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