It was the winter kitchen and the summer dining-room--a beautiful room, perfect in neatness and simplicity, and in the tasteful arrangement of its old-fashioned furniture. There was a "secretary" of dark wood, which might have "come over in the _Mayflower_" between the windows, with a bookcase above it; there were a tall clock and two carved armchairs, a chintz-covered sofa which looked new beside the rest of the things, and a rocking-chair or two. There were pretty muslin curtains on the windows, and pictures on the walls; and except for the stove that stood against the chimney-place one might easily have mistaken the room, and called it the parlour, for there was no trace of kitchen utensil or kitchen soil to be seen. The utensils were all in the "sink room" which opened near the back door, and the soil was nowhere. All the house was beautiful in its perfect neatness. Everything in it was old, and some of the things were ancient, and had a history. A story could be told of oak chest and bookcase and bureau. Some association, sad or sweet, clung to every old-fashioned ornament and to every picture on the wall. "I don't believe there is so pleasant a house in all the state as this is," said Fidelia gravely. Her sister smiled. "You have not seen many of the houses in the state," said she. "But I have seen several. And I think I know." They had the long afternoon to themselves. The elder sister had something to tell about the quiet winter days, many of which she had spent alone. She said nothing of loneliness, however; she called it restful quiet. She had had visitors enough, and every one had been mindful and kind, from Judge Leonard, who had sent his sleigh to take her to church on stormy Sundays, to Jabez Ainsworth, who had shovelled her paths and fed her hens and cow all the winter, and left her nothing troublesome or toilsome to do. She told of the work which had occupied her, the books she had read, and the letters she had received and written, and enlarged on several items of neighbourhood news which she had only had time to mention in her letter. Then Fidelia had her turn: nothing that she could tell could fail to interest her sister as to the months in which they had been separated. Her studies, her friends, her room-mate, little Nellie Austin, the youngest pupil in the school; the teachers, the school routine, household affairs--all were full of interest to Eunice, who had been a pupil herself long ago; but she listened in silence to it all. Even when Fidelia began to plan a new life for them when her school days should be over, and she ready for work, she only said "Yes" and "No," and "We must wait and see." Fidelia was too eager in her speech and in her plans to notice the silence at the moment, but she remembered it afterwards. The next morning Fidelia was awakened by a kiss from the smiling lips of her sister. "Breakfast is ready," said she.