his bureau, and returned it to him
when she had finished her task.

It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, as Martha
drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and opened the Gothic casement
of the oriel window! On the little dressing-table there was a dainty
looking-glass in a carved and gilt frame; bits of wax-candle were still
in the branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a
little black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pins
rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green fan, lay on the table;
and on a dressing-box by the side of the glass was a work-basket, and an
unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of a
fashion long forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and a
pair of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery on
them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-colour
drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls; and over the mantelpiece,
above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in oval frames. One of
these miniatures represented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a
sanguine complexion, full lips, and clear candid grey eyes. The other was
the likeness of a girl probably not more than eighteen, with small
features, thin cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, and large dark
eyes. The gentleman wore powder; the lady had her dark hair gathered away
from her face, and a little cap, with a cherry-coloured bow, set on the
top of her head--a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadness
rather than of coquetry.

Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the air upon, four
times a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass of twenty; and she was
now, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil's life, unquestionably on the
wrong side of fifty. Such was the locked-up chamber in Mr. Gilfil's
house: a sort of visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where
he had long turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting up
for ever all the passion and the poetry of his life.

There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, who had any
very distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil's wife, or indeed who knew
anything of her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, with a
Latin inscription in memory of her, over the vicarage pew. The
parishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were not
generally gifted with descriptive powers, and