rooms. The pictures were old revolutionary scenes, besides President Lincoln and his family and an engrossed copy of the Lord's Prayer and the Ten Commandments, in photograph. Up in one corner hung two highly elaborate samplers, framed in an old-fashioned, heavy style. On one of these "MARY ABIGAIL JENNISON, August, 1827," was stiffly worked under the claws of a red and yellow bird of paradise; on the other he read, "SARAH AMANDA JENNISON, August, 1827," who boasted for her finer art the alphabet and the numerals arranged in rows around a red book and a green willow-tree.
"Old, those," Philip thought. "I guess the Jennison ladies must be pretty well tired out with housekeeping if they are the heads of this establishment at present."
There were sundry photographs on the walls, that he had not time to examine closely, of elderly men and women with plain, hard-featured New England faces.
The door into the room behind the sitting-room stood open. It was quite light, each shutter turned back. This appeared considerably more of a living-room than its fellows,
