“It was a beautiful, and altogether a rare scene, which I viewed in the quiet light of that closing winter day. The table was arranged for forty persons, each guest’s name being upon the plate designated on the invitation list. In the centre stood three magnificent _ormolu_ ornaments, filled with fadeless French flowers, while, beside each plate, was a _bouquet_ of odorous greenhouse exotics. It was not the color or design of the Sévres China, of green and gold, the fragile glass, nor yet the massive plate, which attracted my admiration, but the harmony of the whole, which satisfied and refreshed. From the heavy curtains, depending from the lofty windows, to the smallest ornament in the room, all was ornate and consistent. I could not but contrast this vision of grandeur with the delicate, child-like form of the woman who watched me with a quiet smile, as I enjoyed this evidence of her taste, and appreciation of the beautiful. All day she had watched over the movements of those engaged in the arrangement of this room, and yet so unobtrusive had been her presence, and so systematically had she planned, that no confusion occurred in the complicated domestic machinery. For the pleasure it would give her children, hereafter, she had an artist photograph the interior of the apartment, and he was just leaving with his trophy, as we entered. All was ready and complete, and when we passed from the room, there was still time for rest before the hour named in the cards of invitation. .... “It was almost twilight, as we entered the East Room, and its sombreness and wondrous size struck me forcibly. The hour for strangers and visitors had passed, and we felt at liberty to wander, in our old-fashioned way, up and down its great length.” “It was softly raining, we discovered, as we peered through the window, and a light fringe of mist hung over the trees in the grounds. The feeling of balmy comfort one feels in watching it rain, from the window of a cozy room, was intensified by the associations of this historic place, and the sadness of time was lost in the outreachings of eternity. Its spectral appearance, as we turned from the window and looked down its shadowy outlines, the quickly succeeding thoughts of the many who had crowded into its now deserted space, and the remembrance of some who would no more come, were fast crowding out the practical, and leaving in its place mental excitement, and spiritualized nervous influences. Mrs. Patterson was the first to note the flight of time, and, as we turned, to leave with the past the hour it claimed, her grave face lighted up with a genuinely happy expression, as she said: ‘I am glad this is the last entertainment; it suits me better to be quiet, and in my own home. Mother is not able to enjoy these things. Belle is too young, and I am indifferent to them—so it is well it is almost over.’