"Your father and mother always occupied it when in town, and your mother never tired of the pictures and the laces about the windows and bed." "They’re beautiful, but where did all these things come from?" I asked, examining the furniture of the room more carefully. "Papa and mamma brought them from England when they came to this country," she answered. I recall all this now, and vividly, because of the part the room and its furnishings afterward played in my life, and this under circumstances so peculiar that each article became at last fixed in my mind as if its image were engraven there. Of the many things the apartment contained, not the least wonderful was the high canopied bedstead, with its rare lace, about which Constance had spoken. Scattered about the room were many chairs, some upright, some reclining, but all curiously carved and odd and of old fashion. In the center of the apartment a great table stood, and from its fat sides and legs lions and tigers looked out as if ready to spring upon you, so real were they in every particular. At one end of the room brass andirons, with tops like tigers’ heads, adorned the fireplace, and at the side a shovel and tongs of similar pattern. The walls of the room were tinted, and on these pictures hung, and among them one of George III. Above this, and as if in guardianship, there was a portrait of the younger Pitt, but who he was I did not then know, any more than of the other. The room was called the Treasury, and in it and nowhere else, I afterward came to know, Mr. Seymour lived again the life of his youth. Here he preserved all the mementos of his young wife and of the land and home they had left beyond the sea. Here, after her death, it was said he would shut himself up for days together, from all save Constance, until, the mood passing, he would emerge again, the quiet, unobtrusive man the world knew.