crucifix under a glass bell, and nearby stood two wax candles and a clock, the face of which was supported by winding pillars of alabaster.
Above them, the wall was covered with ambrotypes, with black silhouettes and wax profiles,—all in pretty frames. Between the windows, at the head of the room, hung an oil painting of a stern-looking man, in a blue coat and black neckeloth. Underneath it, behind glass, were a few withered leaves,—a dried-up wedding wreath. Near the door was fastened a water basin, and from it peeped fresh twigs of pussy willow. In the corner stood a china closet lined with a shining mirror and full of cups, vases, and silver, and tiny porcelain figures. A yellow filigree spinet glistened dimly on the other side. Solid antiquity looked out of all corners with a soft and peaceful glance.
“Do take one more cup! The cream is not very good,—city quality!—Do you see
