A black
harmonium organ stood in one corner, set out with black and white
hymn-books; a trestle-like table contained a large Bible; half a dozen
black, horsehair-cushioned chairs stood, geometrically distant, against
the walls, from which hung four engravings of "Paradise Lost" in black
mourning frames; some dried ferns and autumn leaves stood in a vase on
the mantelpiece, as if the chill of the room had prematurely blighted
them. The coldly glittering grate below was also decorated with withered
sprays, as if an attempt had been made to burn them, but was frustrated
through damp. Suddenly recalled to a sense of her wet boots and the
new carpet, she hurriedly turned away, crossed the hall into the
dining-room, and thence passed into the kitchen. The "hired girl," a
large-boned Missourian, a daughter of a neighboring woodman, was peeling
potatoes at the table. Mrs. Rylands drew a chair before the kitchen
stove, and put her wet feet on the hob.
"I'll bet a cooky, Mess Rylands, you've done forgot the vanillar," said
the girl, with a certain domestic and confidential familiarity.
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