That was a room for holy days, too, a place for good behaviour, and
boots profaned it. Its door was nearly always shut and locked, and
only the chance formal visit of respect-worthy strangers brought down
its key from the top shelf of the kitchen dresser. That key was seldom
used for relatives, except at Christmas, or when one was dead. The
room was always sombre. Light filtered into it through curtains of
wire gauze, fixed in the window by mahogany frames. Over the door by
which you entered was the picture of an uncle, too young and jolly for
that serious position, I thought then, with his careless neckcloth, and
his cap pulled down over one eye. The gilt moulding was gone from a
corner of the picture--the only flaw in the prim apartment--for once
that portrait fell to the floor, and on the very day, it was guessed,
that his ship must have foundered.

A round table set on a central thick leg having a three-clawed foot was
in that chamber, covered with a cloth on which was worked a picture
from the story of Ruth. But only puzzling bits of the latter were to
be seen, for on the circumference of the table-cover were books, placed
at precise distances apart, and in the centre was a huge Bible, with a
brass clasp. With many others my name was in the Bible, and my
birthday, and a space left blank for the day of my death. Reflected in
the pier-glass which doubled the room were the portraits in oils of my
grandparents, looking wonderfully young, as you may have noticed is
often the case in people belonging to ancient history, as though,
strangely enough, people were the same in those remote days, except
that they wore different clothes.

I have often sat on the chair, and when patience had inured me to the
spines of the area I occupied, looked at the reflections in the mirror
of those portraits, for they seemed more distant so, and in a