Possessed of an unusually placid temperament, there had occurred in his
life but few events calculated to change the natural bent of his
disposition. The death of his wife was indeed a bitter grief; but he had
not married young, and she had lived so short a time, that after a while he
returned to his usual train of reflection. But for the constant presence of
his son, whose early education he superintended, he would have doubted if
there ever had been a reality to the remembrance of the happy year he had
passed in her society.

With his hand resting on the sacred page, and his heart engrossed with the
lessons it taught, he was aroused from his occupation by a loud noise
proceeding from the kitchen. This was a most unusual circumstance, for
besides that the kitchen was at some distance from the house, the servants
were generally quiet and orderly. It was far from being the case at
present. Mr. Weston waited a short time to give affairs time to right
themselves, but at length determined to inquire into the cause of the
confusion.

As he passed through the long hall, the faces of his ancestors looked down
upon him by the dim light. There was a fair young lady, with an arm white
as snow, unconcealed by a sleeve, unless the fall of a rich border of lace
from her shoulder could be called by that name. Her golden hair was brushed
back from her forehead, and fell in masses over her shoulders. Her face was
slightly turned, and there was a smile playing about her mouth.

Next her was a grave-looking cavalier, her husband. There were old men,
with powdered hair and the rich dress of bygone times.

There were the hoop and the brocades, and the stomacher, and the fair
bosom, against which a rose leaned, well satisfied with its lounging