John and Abigail were lovers their lifetime through.  Their published letters show a oneness of thought and sentiment that, viewed across the years, moves us to tears to think that such as they should at last feebly totter, and then turn to dust.  But here they came in the joyous springtime of their lives; upon this floor you tread the ways their feet have trod; these walls have echoed to their singing voices, listened to their counsels, and seen love’s caress.

There is no surplus furniture nor display nor setting forth of useless things.  Every article you see has its use.  The little shelf of books, well-thumbed, displays no “Trilby” nor “Quest of the Golden Girl”—­not an anachronism any where.  Curtains, chairs, tables, and the one or two pictures—­all ring true.  In the kitchen are washtubs and butter-ladles and bowls; and the lantern hanging by the chimney, with a dipped candle inside, has a carefully scraped horn face.  It is a lanthorn.  In the cupboard across the corner are blue china and pewter spoons and steel knives, with just a little polished-brass stuff sent from England.  Down in the cellar, with its dirt walls, are apples, yellow pumpkins and potatoes—­each in its proper place, for Abigail was a rare good housekeeper.  Then there is a barrel of cider, with a hickory spigot and an inviting gourd.  All tells of economy, thrift, industry and the cunning of woman’s hands.

In the kitchen is a funny cradle, hooded, and cut out of a great pine log.  The little mattress and the coverlet seem disturbed, and you would declare the baby had just been lifted out, and you listen for its cry.  The rocker is worn by the feet of mothers whose hands were busy with needles or wheel as they rocked and sang.  And from the fact that it is in the kitchen, you know that the servant-girl problem then had no terrors.

Overhead hang ears of corn, bunches of dried catnip, pennyroyal and boneset, and festooned across the corner are strings of dried apples.

Then you go upstairs, with conscience pricking a bit for thus visiting the house of honest folks when they are away, for you know how all good housewives dislike to have people prying about, especially in the upper chambers—­at least June said so!

The room to the right was Abigail’s own.  You would know it was a woman’s room.  There is a faint odor of lavender and thyme about it, and the white and blue draperies around the little mirror, and the little feminine nothings on the dresser, reveal the lady who would appear well before the man she loves.

The bed is a high, draped four-poster, plain and solid, evidently made by a ship-carpenter who had ambitions.  The coverlet is light blue, and matches the draperies of windows, dresser and mirror.  On the pillow is a nightcap, in which even a homely woman would be beautiful.