It was one of the two front and principal bedchambers in the house, being immediately above, and of the same dimensions with the “big parlor” below. And, with the exception of the bed, which, in all its appointments, was very good, it was as rudely furnished. The walls and floor were perfectly bare. The windows were without curtains or shades, but were provided with unpainted oak shutters which closed from the outside. These two front windows faced the east; between them stood an old oaken chest of drawers surmounted by a hanging mirror, so mildewed as to be scarcely useful. Each side of this old piece of furniture stood a high-backed, chip-bottomed chair, one under each window. On the south side of the room was the broad open fireplace, with deep closets in the recesses on the right and left. On the west side was the high four-post bedstead, with its head against the partition wall, and its foot opposite the windows. On the side nearest the fireplace was the door leading into the rear room. On the north side was the door opening into the hall. In the corner between this hall door and the head of the bed was an old-fashioned piece of furniture of black walnut that reached from the lofty ceiling to the floor, and might have been a bookcase, a clothes-press, a cabinet, or the three in one; for the long, heavy black doors hanging open disclosed closets within closets, and shelves and drawers and pigeon-holes innumerable, and of all shapes and sizes. Yellow papers protruded from many compartments. Gloria made up her mind to investigate this ancient secretary at her leisure the next day. Then, having offered up her evening prayers and thanksgivings, she went to bed, and, notwithstanding care and anxiety, she soon fell asleep. David Lindsay sat long over the fire in the big parlor; not until all the household had been for hours in deep repose did he rouse himself to go to the chamber allotted to him over the dining-room. This was a large, square room, in all respects a counterpart of the one on the opposite side of the hall occupied by Gloria. It was furnished in the same rude style. The only difference was that this room was without the huge old escritoire, or secretary, that stood in the other. David Lindsay did not replenish his fire. It was nearly out, so he covered it up, blew out his snuff of candle, and retired to bed; but not to sleep—at least, for a long time. He was as nearly heart-broken, poor fellow, as any youthful lover ever was. His pride was struggling with the sense of disappointment, humiliation and sorrow that seemed to be rushing him into despair. He felt sure that if his capricious but tender bride knew the tithe of his sufferings, she would give herself to him; but not to her pity could he bear to owe his love. He must accept his fate, rather than lose his self-respect; must see her in safety, and then depart. But how to secure her safety? That was the question that kept him awake so long.