It was near the close of a fine winter day that Alice and Elsie were together in the family rooms of the cabin. This apartment was large, and supplied with all needful furniture. The walls were lathed and plastered, but not whitewashed, and retaining the original stone color, gave a sober tone to the air of the room. There was no carpet on the floor, but the broad hearth was a notable specimen of the fine arts, by Hugh Hutton, who declared, in his pride, that it was an interesting, instructive, and endless study, to anyone fond of tracing the individuality and infinite variety of natural form and color. The hearth was, in fact, a fine mosaic of fragments of rocks, of divers forms, sizes, and colors, perfectly filled in, leveled and chinked with a hard, white composition, that formed an irregular boundary line between the pieces. Each side the ample fireplace were dressers, constructed of strong plank, and at once laden and ornamented with crockery ware. From the lowest and broadest shelves hung dark calico curtains, reaching to the floor, and concealing “the humble little household gods,” as Elsie called them. There were chairs and tables, made more for strength than beauty, ranged along the walls. The windows were curtained with dark calico. There was no article of luxury, no superfluity in the room, but everything was convenient, orderly, and immaculately clean. A fine fire blazed in the broad chimney, and though the hour was growing dark, it illuminated the room, so as to render a lighted candle unnecessary. The tea-kettle hung over the blaze, an oven lid sat upon the logs by its side, and the oven was turned up against the front of the fire to heat for baking. Elsie stood at a deal-table, making out biscuits—busy, healthful, and happy as ever.