It is a quiet airy pleasant room, rich enough to please even an Oxford scholar of the olden time, for there are more than “twenty books clothed in black and red” within its restricted space. There is one windowed corner, at which, in the summer time, the setting sun streams in, and for this cause Christian has chosen it, as the depository of her treasures. There is a portrait hanging on the wall; a mild apostolic face, with rare benignity in its pensive smile, and genius stamped upon its pale and spiritual forehead: too pale, alas! and spiritual; for the first glance tells you, that the original can no longer be in the land of the living. A little table stands below it, covered with books--a few old volumes worthy to be laid beneath the word of truth--and there too lies a Bible. It has a name upon it, and a far-past date, and its pages tell of careful perusal, and its margin is rich with written comments, and brief, yet clear, and forcible remarks. Below the name, a trembling hand has marked another date--you can see it is this day five years--and a text, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they have entered into their rest, and their works do follow them.” The faltering hand was that of Christian Melville, and thus you have the story of her sadness. This place is the favourite sanctuary of that subdued and chastened spirit; a holy trysting-place, that has been filled often with a presence greater than that of earthly king or lord, and Christian is always happy here, even though--yea, verily, because--she does sit among these relics of a bygone time, of youthful hopes and expectations which long ago have come to an end and passed away for ever.