as like many that you and I have seen in a certain
respectable class of houses,--wide, cool, shady, and with a mellow
_old_ tone to every thing in its furniture and belongings. It was
a parlor of the past, and not of to-day, yet exquisitely neat and
well-kept. The Turkey carpet was faded: it had been part of the
wedding furnishing of Grace's mother, years ago. The great, wide,
motherly, chintz-covered sofa, which filled a recess commanding the
window, was as different as possible from any smart modern article of
the name. The heavy, claw-footed, mahogany chairs; the tall clock
that ticked in one corner; the footstools and ottomans in faded
embroidery,--all spoke of days past. So did the portraits on the wall.
One was of a fair, rosy young girl, in a white gown, with powdered
hair dressed high over a cushion. It was the portrait of Grace's
mother. Another was that of a minister in gown and bands, with
black-silk gloved hands holding up conspicuously a large Bible. This
was the remote ancestor, the minister. Then there was the picture of
John's father, placed lovingly where the eyes seemed always to be
following the slight, white-robed figure of the young wife. The walls
were papered with an old-fashioned paper of a peculiar pattern, bought
in France seventy-five years before. The vases of India-china that
adorned the mantels, the framed engravings of architecture and
pictures in Rome, all were memorials of the taste of those long passed
away. Yet the room had a fresh, sweet, sociable air. The roses and
honeysuckles looked in at the windows; the table covered with books
and magazines, and the familiar work-basket of Miss Grace, with its
work, gave a sort of impression of modern family household life. It
was a wide, open, hospitable, generous-minded room, that seemed to
breathe a fragrance of invitation and general sociability; it was a
room full of associations and memories, and its daily arrangement and
ornamentation made one of the pleasant tasks of Miss Grace's life.

She spread down a newspaper on the large, square centre-table, and,
emptying her apronful of flowers upon it, took her vases from the
shelf, and with her scissors sat down to the task of clipping and
arranging them.

Just then Letitia Ferguson came across the garden, and entered the
back door after her, with a knot of choice roses in her hand, and a
plate of seed-cakes covered with a hem-stitched napkin. The Fergusons
and the Seymours occupied adjoining