University of Virginia Library

Ruth listened drowsily, as she was bid;
In gentle, wave-like trance she sank and rose,
Gazing on wall and ceiling, as if there
But by a dream's permission.
For the room
Showed legibly its inmates' daily life.
Isabel's couch, a sofa-bedstead, worn
And faded, stood against the whitewashed wall,
The birds-of-paradise upon its chintz
Dim-plumaged; and—perhaps by accident—
A red shawl, flung across the sofa's arm,
Concealed its shabbiness. Above it hung
A colored wood-cut, of an arch-faced girl
Crossing a brook, barefooted, with a smirk
Of half-coquettish fear. Near Esther's bed
Raphael's Madonna from an oval gazed,
The Virgin with her Child alone, engraved
In some old German town, a relic left
From Eleanor's home. The bookshelf swung between
Two simple prints,—the “Cotter's Saturday Night”
And the “Last Supper,” dear to Esther's heart,
Though scarce true to Da Vinci. On the shelves
Maria Edgeworth's “Helen” leaned against
Thomas à Kempis. Bunyan's “Holy War”
And “Pilgrim's Progress” stood up stiff between
“Locke on the Understanding” and the Songs
Of Robert Burns. The “Voices of the Night,”
“Bridal of Pennacook,” “Paradise Lost,”
With Irving's “Sketch-Book,” “Ivanhoe,” Watts's Hymns,
Mingled in democratic neighborhood.
Upon a small, white-napkined table lay
Three Bibles, by themselves,—one almost new,
The others showing usage. Little need
To say the unworn one was Isabel's,
Who boasted it her only property
That was not worse for wear.
Ruth roused her thoughts
As Esther ceased, saying,—
“Poor old Peggy Bligh!