chipped paper-weights; gorgeous picture-books with loosened covers, and a
magnificent portrait-album which had been deflowered and had nothing left
in it but the old and ugly, the commonplace middle-aged, and the vapid
young; with many other things besides, all more or less defective.

This round table seemed like an asylum and last resting-place of things
which had never been useful, and had ceased to be ornamental, which were
yet not quite bad enough to be thrown into the dust-bin. To Fan it was a
sort of South Kensington Museum, where she was permitted to handle things
freely, and for some time she continued inspecting these rich treasures,
after which she once more began to glance round the room. Such a stately
room, large enough to shelter two or three families, so richly decorated
with its red and cream colours, yet silent and cold and dusty and
untenanted! On the mantelpiece of grey marble stood a large ornamental
clock, which ticked not and the hands of which were stationary, supported
on each side by bronzes--a stalwart warrior in a coat of mail in the act
of drawing his sword, and a long-haired melancholy minstrel playing on a
guitar. A few landscapes in oil were also hanging on the walls--
representations of that ideal world of green shade and peace which was so
often in Fan's mind. Facing the fireplace stood a tall bookcase, and
opening it she selected a book full of poetry and pictures, and took it
to an old sofa, or couch, to read. The sofa was under the large window,
which had panes of coloured glass, and remembering that Miss Starbrow had
told her that it looked on to the garden, she got on to the sofa and
pushed the heavy sash up.

There was a good-sized garden without, and trees in it--poplar, lime, and
thorn, now nearly leafless; but it was very pleasant to see them and to
feel the mild autumn air on her face, so pleasant that Fan thought no
more about her book. Ivy grew in abundance against the walls of the