for a while holds her reign, Sorrow appears with her train of reproachings and remorse, until exhaustion comes to its aid, and it obtains the relief so bountifully provided by Him who knoweth well our frames.  With Mr. Weston this last hour was well employed, for he not only read, but studied the Holy Scriptures.  Possessed of an unusually placid temperament, there had occurred in his life but few events calculated to change the natural bent of his disposition.  The death of his wife was indeed a bitter grief; but he had not married young, and she had lived so short a time, that after a while he returned to his usual train of reflection.  But for the constant presence of his son, whose early education he superintended, he would have doubted if there ever had been a reality to the remembrance of the happy year he had passed in her society.

With his hand resting on the sacred page, and his heart engrossed with the lessons it taught, he was aroused from his occupation by a loud noise proceeding from the kitchen.  This was a most unusual circumstance, for besides that the kitchen was at some distance from the house, the servants were generally quiet and orderly.  It was far from being the case at present.  Mr. Weston waited a short time to give affairs time to right themselves, but at length determined to inquire into the cause of the confusion.

As he passed through the long hall, the faces of his ancestors looked down upon him by the dim light.  There was a fair young lady, with an arm white as snow, unconcealed by a sleeve, unless the fall of a rich border of lace from her shoulder could be called by that name.  Her golden hair was brushed back from her forehead, and fell in masses over her shoulders.  Her face was slightly turned, and there was a smile playing about her mouth.

Next her was a grave-looking cavalier, her husband.  There were old men, with powdered hair and the rich dress of bygone times.

There were the hoop and the brocades, and the stomacher, and the fair bosom, against which a rose leaned, well satisfied with its lounging place.  Over the hall doors, the antlers of the stag protruded, reminding one that the chase had been a favorite pastime with the self-exiled sons of Merry England.

Such things have passed away from thee, my native State!  Forever have they gone, and the times when over waxed floors thy sons and daughters gracefully performed the minuet.  The stately bow, the graceful curtsey are seen no more; there is hospitality yet lingering in thy halls, but fashion is making its way there too.  The day when there was a tie between master and slave,—­is that departing, and why?

Mr. Weston passed from the house under a covered way to the kitchen, and with a firm but slow step, entered.  And here, if you be an Old or a New Englander, let me introduce you—­as little at home would be Queen Victoria holding court in the Sandwich Islands, as you here.  You may look in vain for that bane of good dinners, a cooking stove; search forever for a grain of saleratus or soda, and it will be in vain.  That large, round block, with the wooden hammer, is the biscuit-beater; and the cork that is lifting itself from the jug standing on it, belongs to the yeast department.