to be seen, up-stairs and down."

As she spoke we heard the voice of the hostess bidding us welcome to
Schuyler Hall, and, fresh from the fairy-land of Aunt Jane's memories,
I walked into one of the scenes of the story, the house that was a
wedding fee.

There was a hint of baronial grandeur in the lofty ceilings, the heavy
walnut wainscoting and oaken floors, the huge fireplaces with their
tall mantels; and underneath the evident remodeling and repairing one
saw the home and the taste of a vanished generation, the same that had
witnessed the building of Monticello, for the hand that wrote the
Declaration of Independence had drawn the plans for the house that was
a wedding fee.

From room to room I went, pleasing myself with fancies of the man who
had never bowed the knee to Mammon. My feet were on the floors that he
had trod. By this worn hearthstone he had knelt, night and morn, to
the God who had given him the desire of his heart. From this doorway
he had looked upon the broad acres that were his by grace of a
generous adversary, the tribute of one noble nature to another. In the
long, low-ceiled bedchamber above the stately lower rooms he had slept
the sleep of one whose conscience is void of offense toward God and
his fellow man, and through the dormer-window that looked toward the
rising of the sun his soul had passed out in its flight to the stars.

Dusty and flowerless, the garden paths wandered to right and left,
but not one did I miss in my pilgrimage; for who could know what
shrines of remembrance might lie hidden in that drift of leaves,
withered and fallen before their time? Perhaps the minister's hand had
planted the clump of tansy and the bed of sage, and well I knew that
here in the night hours he had met his Maker, and his garden had been
to him as that paradise where Adam walked with God.

Near the house was a spring to whose waters came the Indian and the
deer before the foot of the pioneer had touched Kentucky soil. Rising
from sources too deep to be affected by the weather of earth, no
drouth ever checks its flow, no flood increases it, and here I knelt
and drank to the memory of a day that is not dead nor can ever die.

Again on the threshold of the old house I paused and looked back into
the shadowy hall. Ah, if the other world would for a moment give up
its own that I might see them "in their habit as they lived," the
Cavalier squire, the Puritan minister, the bride whose womanly worth
w