their owner in the very act of dusting
them. Here there were four or five books, prettily bound, with gilt
leaves, arranged in shapes on the small round table. Here also was
deposited a spangled mat of wondrous brightness, made of short white
sticks of glass strung together. It must have taken care and time in
its manufacture, but was, I should say, but of little efficacy either
for domestic use or domestic ornament. There were shells on the
chimneypiece, and two or three china figures. There was a birdcage
hung in the window but without a bird. It was all very clean, but the
room conveyed at the first glance an overpowering idea of its own
absolute inutility and vanity. It was capable of answering no purpose
for which men and women use rooms; but he who could have said so to
Mrs. Ray must have been a cruel and a hardhearted man.

The other room which looked out upon the green was snug enough, and
sufficed for all the widow's wants. There was a little book-case
laden with books. There was the family table at which they ate their
meals; and there was the little table near the window at which Mrs.
Ray worked. There was an old sofa, and an old arm-chair; and there
was, also, a carpet, alas, so old that the poor woman had become
painfully aware that she must soon have either no carpet or a new
one. A word or two had already been said between her and Mrs. Prime
on that matter, but the word or two had not as yet been comfortable.
Then, over the fire, there was an old round mirror; and, having told
of that, I believe I need not further describe the furniture of the
sitting room at Bragg's End.

But I have not as yet described the whole of Mrs. Ray's family. Had
I done so, her life would indeed have been sour, and sorrowful, for
she was a woman who especially needed companionship. Though I have
hitherto spoken but of one daughter, I have said that two had been
left with her when her husband died. She had one whom she feared
and obeyed, seeing that a master was necessary to her; but she had
another whom she loved and caressed, and I may declare, that some
such object for her tenderness was as necessary to her as the master.
She could not have lived without something to kiss, something to
tend, something to which she might speak in short, loving, pet terms
of affection. This youngest girl, Rachel, had been only two years old
when her father died, and now, at the time of this story, was not yet
quite twenty. Her sister was, in t