been thrown away. In one parting we found a parcel of old manuscript
sermons, the existence of which was a mystery, until Kate remembered
there had been a gifted son of the house who entered the ministry and
soon died. The windows had each a pane of stained glass, and on the wide
sills we used to put our immense bouquets of field-flowers. There was
one place which I liked and sat in more than any other. The chimney
filled nearly the whole side of the room, all but this little corner,
where there was just room for a very comfortable high-backed cushioned
chair, and a narrow window where I always had a bunch of fresh green
ferns in a tall champagne-glass. I used to write there often, and always
sat there when Kate sang and played. She sent for a tuner, and used to
successfully coax the long-imprisoned music from the antiquated piano,
and sing for her visitors by the hour. She almost always sang her oldest
songs, for they seemed most in keeping with everything about us. I used
to fancy that the portraits liked our being there. There was one young
girl who seemed solitary and forlorn among the rest in the room, who
were all middle-aged. For their part they looked amiable, but rather
unhappy, as if she had come in and interrupted their conversation. We
both grew very fond of her, and it seemed, when we went in the last
morning on purpose to take leave of her, as if she looked at us
imploringly. She was soon afterward boxed up, and now enjoys society
after her own heart in Kate's room in Boston.

There was the largest sofa I ever saw opposite the fireplace; it must
have been brought in in pieces, and built in the room. It was broad
enough for Kate and me to lie on together, and very high and square; but
there was a pile of soft cushions at one end. We used to enjoy it
greatly in September, when the evenings were long and cool, and we had
many candles, and a fire--and crickets too--on the hearth, and the dear
dog lying on the rug. I remember one rainy night, just before Miss