In the window, it is true, there were four or five empty glasses, where children's spice had once been.

There was a little deal shelf here and there; but there were neither sand, salt, whitening, nor pipes.

There was not the ghost of a farthing candle, nor a herring, nor a marble, nor a match, nor of any other thing, sour or sweet, eatable or saleable for other uses, except one small mug full of buttermilk up in a corner--the last relic of a departed trade, like the "one rose of the wilderness, left on its stalk to mark where a garden has been." But I will say more about this in the next chapter..