partment; the small chairs were
old-fashioned mahogany pieces with horse-hair seats, while the
easy-chairs--and there were several of these--were capacious and of
divers descriptions. A well-worn sofa was stowed away in an obscure
angle, and a piano with a rose-silk front and fretwork occupied
another of the many dark corners which the room possessed.

The whole atmosphere of the place was of extreme comfort. The bare
description of furniture conveys nothing, but the comfort was there
and showed out in the odds and ends of family possessions which were
in evidence everywhere--the grandfather's clock, the sewing-machine,
the quaint old oil-lamps upon the mantel-board over the place where
the fire should have been but was not; the soft hangings and curious
old family pictures and discoloured engravings; the perfect femininity
of the room. In all respects it was a Canadian farm "best parlour."

There were four occupants of the room. Two old ladies, rotund, and
garbed in modest raiment of some sort of dark, clinging material, were
gathered about the monster self-feeding stove, seated in arm-chairs in
keeping with their ample proportions. One was the widow of the late
Silas Malling, and the other was the school-ma'am from the Leonville
school-house. This good lady rejoiced in the name of Gurridge, and
Mrs. Gurridge was the oldest friend of Hephzibah Malling, a fact which
spoke highly for the former good dame's many excellent qualities.
Hephzibah was not a woman to set her affections on her sex without
good reason. Her moral standard was high, and though she was ever
ready to show kindliness to her fellow-creatures, she was far too
practical and honest herself to take to her motherly bosom any one who
was not worthy of regard.

As was natural, they were talking of the forthcoming marriage, and the
tone of their lowered voices indicated that their remarks were in the
nature of confidences. Mrs. Malling was sitting bolt upright, and her
plump, rather rough hands were folded in her broad lap. Mrs. Gurridge
was leaning towards the stove, gazing into the fire through the mica
sides of the fire-box.

"I trust they will be happy," said Mrs. Gurridge, with a sigh. Then as
an afterthought: "He seems all right."

"Yes," Mrs. Malling said, with a responsive exhalation, "I think
so. He has few faults. But he is not the man to follow my Silas on
this farm. I truly believe, Sarah, that he couldn't tell the
difference between a cabbag