When supper was over, Bessie ushered me into a large sitting room, on the left of the hall, and bid me good night. A large, square table, upon which was a copy of Godey's Lady's Book, the New England Cultivator, the New Bedford Mercury, and sundry other papers of good morals, stood in the center of the room. The walls were papered in bright colors, and the floor was covered with an Uxbridge carpet, the colors of which were green and red, and made fresh by the glare of a spirit lamp that burned upon the table. A chart of the South Shoal, a map of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and sundry rude drawings in crayon and water colors, hung suspended from the walls. The air of quiet cheerfulness that pervaded the sitting room, bespoke the care Bessie had bestowed upon it, and the active part she took in the management of the household. And, too, there was a piano standing open at one end of the room, for Bessie, in addition to having studied Latin and algebra two years at the high school, had taken music lessons of Monsieur Pensiné, and could play seven tunes right off. An aged, clerical-looking man, his visage lean and careworn, with his newly-married bride, a simply clad country girl of eighteen, sat at a window, looking out upon a little square, and every few minutes exchanging caresses they imagined were seen by no one else in the room. Indeed, when they were not caressing, they were whispering in very affectionate proximity. Once or twice I overheard, "My darling," and, "You know, my love," which curt but meaning sentences are much in fashion with persons on a bridal tour, and who set out with the belief that earth has no ill that can disturb the solace of their perhaps weak love.