Mrs.Markham was dipping candles, and the faint, sickly odor of the hot melted tallow, which filled Richard's olfactories as he came in, was never forgotten, but remembered as part and parcel of that terrible day which would have a place in his memory so long as being lasted.

Every little thing was impressed upon his mind, and came up afterward with vivid distinctness whenever he thought of that wretched time.

There was a bit of oilcloth on the floor near to the dripping candles, and he saw the spots of tallow which had dropped and dried upon it--saw, too, his mother's short red gown and blue woolen stockings, as she got up to meet him, and smelled the cabbage cooking on the stove, for they were having a late dinner that day--the boys' favorite, and what Mrs.Markham designated as a "dish of biled vittles." Richard had seen his mother dip candles before--nay, had sometimes assisted at the dipping.

He had seen her short striped gown and blue woolen stockings, and smelled the cooking cabbage, but they never struck him with so great a sense of discomfort as they did to-day when he stood, hat in hand, wondering why home seemed so cheerless.

It was as if the shadow of the great shock awaiting him had already fallen upon him, oppressing him with a weight he could not well shake off.