rs. And we brought down-stairs the fine
painting of Colonel James Hampden, who was the splendid colonial in
claret-color that we had so much admired, and hung him and a smaller
painting marked, "Jessamine, Aged 22" where they could look down on
those two.

These were the only pictures allowed in that room, and they gave to
it an atmosphere flavored most sweetly of yesterday. Indeed, I think
they must have approved of the room altogether, for we hadn't
changed so much as we'd restored it. Even the glass shades that
use'd to shield their wax candles were in their old places. There
was their old-world atmosphere of stateliness; their Chinese jars,
their English vases, their beautiful old Chelsea figures; and the
sampler so painstakingly

_Work'd by Ann Eliza Hynds
Ag'd 9 Yrs. 2 Mos., Nov'r, 1757_

that had been carefully framed and mounted as a small fire-screen,
perhaps for Ann Eliza's lady mama or proud grandmother. It was such
human and intimate things, the mute mementoes of children who had
passed, that made us begin to love Hynds House, for all its bigness
and uncanniness and dilapidation.

We did discover one human touch laid upon the place by Sophronisba
herself. She had gathered together a full set of small, hand-colored
photographs of Confederate generals, wrapped them in a hand-made
Confederate flag, into which was tucked a receipt signed by Judah
Benjamin for Hynds silver melted into a bar and given to the Cause,
written, "The glory is departed," across the package, and hidden it.
Alicia, who had a hankering after Confederates, herself, put the
photographs in a leather-covered album at least as old as
themselves, and kept them sacredly. She said these were America's
own vanquished and vanished Trojans, and that one got a lump in the
throat remembering how

Fallen are those walls that were so good,
And corn grows now where Troy town stood.

Schmetz brought us our upholsterer, Riedriech the cabinet-maker,
most cunning of craftsmen, who knew all there is to know about old
furniture and just what should and shouldn't be done to it. In
addition he was a grizzled, bearded, shambling old angel who clung
to a reeking pipe and Utopian notions, a pestilent and whole-hearted
socialist who would call the President of the United States or the
president of the Plumbers' Union "Comrade" equally, and who put
propagandist literature in everything but our hair.

"Mr. Riedriech,