Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarily thinks of Abel Newt.

When Mrs. Bennet goes out of the room to attend to the tea, Gabriel says that for his part he doesn’t believe in the least that the ship was named for old Mrs. Newt; people are not romantic about their mothers; and Miss Ellen agrees with him.

The room in which they sit is small, and very plain.  There are only a sofa, and table, and some chairs, with shelves of books, and a coarse carpet.  Upon the wall hangs a portrait representing a young and beautiful woman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing and passionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel’s mother.  But although every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful.  There is nothing forlorn in the aspect of the room.  Roses in a glass upon the table, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell every thing.

Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them.  His face is pale, and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk.  He wears slippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made up his mind to be disappointed.  But he is not a clergyman, although his white cravat, somewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat, favor that theory.  There is a little weariness in his expression, and an involuntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to every thing that might be presented—­not because he is especially interested in it or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of avoiding discussion and getting back to his own thoughts.

“Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!” his father says, as he seats himself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table.  He inquires if Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for several days.  He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips his tea, and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself gently, and says he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already autumnal, and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud again after tea.  And what book shall we read?  Perhaps the best of all we can select is Irving’s Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in the previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read over and over a book he knows and loves.  He puts down his knife as he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup.

“I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives.  As I read on, I smell the sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green trees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed, and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under the palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste