There was a case in the corner with some of the wreckage from those vanished vessels. Notes from old Goethe in a singularly neat boyish writing inscribed upon little ornamented cards. Here, too, were small inscriptions which had lain upon presents from Carlyle to his wife. It was pleasant among all that jangling of the past to think of the love which had written them, and that other love which had so carefully preserved them. On one was written: ‘All good attend my darling through this gulf of time and through the long ocean it is leading to. Amen. Amen. T. C.’ On another, dated 1850, and attached evidently to some birthday present, was: ‘Many years to my poor little Jeannie, and may the worst of them be past. No good that is in me to give her shall ever be wanting while I live. May God bless her.’ How strange that this apostle of reticence should have such privacies as these laid open before the curious public within so few years of his death! ‘This is her bedroom,’ said the matron. ‘And here is the old red bed,’ cried Frank. It looked bare and gaunt and dreary with its uncurtained posts. ‘The bed belonged to Mrs. Carlyle’s mother,’ the matron explained. ‘It’s the same bed that Mrs. Carlyle talks about in her letters when she says how she pulled it to pieces.’ ‘Why did she pull it to pieces?’ asked Maude. ‘Better not inquire, dear.’ ‘Indeed you’re right, sir. If you get them into these old houses, it is very hard to get them out. A cleaner woman than Mrs. Carlyle never came out of Scotland. This little room behind was his dressing-room. There’s his stick in the corner. Look what’s written upon the window!’ Decidedly it was a ghostly house. Scratched upon one of the panes with a diamond was the following piece of information— ‘John Harbel Knowles cleaned all the windows in this house, and painted part, in the eighteenth year of age. _March_ 7_th_, 1794.’ ‘Who was _he_?’ asked Maude. ‘Nobody knows, miss!’ It was characteristic of Maude that she was so gentle in her bearing that every one always took it for granted that she was Miss. Frank examined the writing carefully. ‘He was the son of the house and a young aristocrat who had never done a stroke of work before in his life,’ said he. The matron was surprised. ‘What makes you say that, sir?’ ‘What would a workman do with such a name as John Harbel Knowles, or with a diamond ring for that matter? And who would dare to disfigure a window so, if he were not of the family? And why should he be so proud of his work, unless work was a new and wondrous thing to him. To paint _part_ of the windows also sounds like the amateur and not the workman. So I repeat that it was the first achievement of the son of the house.’