Over the chimneypiece, a sword, and an old gold-laced cap, on which Sam looked with reverence.

Three French windows opened on to a dark cool verandah, beyond which was a beautiful flower garden.

The floor of the room, uncarpeted, shone dark and smooth, and the air was perfumed by vases of magnificent flowers, a hundred pounds worth of them, I should say, if you could have taken them to Covent-garden that December morning.

But what took Sam's attention more than anything was an open piano, in a shady recess, and on the keys a little fairy white glove.
"White kid gloves, eh, my lady ?" says Sam; "that don't look well." So he looked through the bookshelves, and, having lighted on "Boswell's Johnson," proceeded into the verandah.

A colley she-dog was lying at one end, who banged her tail against the floor in welcome, but was too utterly prostrated by the heat and by the persecution of her puppy to get up and make friends.