ng-room as a kind of monument to the departed soldier, whose sword
and musket were now tied to the wall with neatly hemmed bows of bright
red cotton.

The chair cushions were of red-and-white glazed patch, the turkey
wings that served as hearth brushes were hung against the white-painted
chimney-piece with blue skirt braid, and the white shades were finished
with home-made scarlet "tossels." A little whatnot in one corner was
laden with the trophies of battle. The warrior's brass buttons were
strung on a red picture cord and hung over his daguerreotype on the
upper shelf; there was a tarnished shoulder strap, and a flattened
bullet that the captain's jealous contemporaries swore _he_ never
stopped, unless he got it in the rear when he was flying from the foe.
There was also a little tin canister in which a charge of powder had
been sacredly preserved. The scoffers, again, said that "the cap'n put
it in his musket when he went into the war, and kep' it there till he
come out." These objects were tastefully decorated with the national
colors. In fact, no modern aesthete could have arranged a symbolic
symphony of grief and glory with any more fidelity to an ideal than
Diadema Bascom, in working out her scheme of red, white, and blue.

Rows of ripening tomatoes lay along the ledges of the windows, and a
tortoise-shell cat snoozed on one of the broad sills. The tall clock in
the corner ticked peacefully. Priscilla Hollis never tired of looking
at the jolly red-cheeked moon, the group of stars on a blue ground, the
trig little ship, the old house, and the jolly moon again, creeping one
after another across the open space at the top.

Jot Bascom was out, as usual, gathering statistics of the last horse
trade; little Jot was building "stickin'" houses in the barn; Priscilla
was sewing long strips for braiding; while Diadema sat at the drawing-in
frame, hook in hand, and a large basket of cut rags by her side.

Not many weeks before she had paid one of her periodical visits to the
attic. No housekeeper in Pleasant River save Mrs. Jonathan Bascom would
have thought of dusting a garret, washing the window and sweeping down
the cobwebs once a month, and renewing the camphor bags in the chests
twice a year; but notwithstanding this zealous care the moths had
made their way into one of her treasure-houses, the most precious of
all,--the old hair trunk that had belonged to her sister Lovice. Once
ensconced there, they had eaten thr