Poems of Lord Byron and T. Moore; “Eugene Aram;” “The Tower of London,” by Harrison Ainsworth; some of Scott’s Novels; “The Pickwick Papers;” a volume of Plays, by W. Shakespeare; “Proverbial Philosophy;” “Pilgrim’s Progress;” “The Whole Duty of Man” (a present when she was married); with two celebrated religious works, one by William Law and the other by Philip Doddridge, which were sent her after her husband’s death, and which she had tried to read, but found that they did not agree with her.  Of course the bookcase held a few school manuals and compendiums, and one of Mr. Webster’s Dictionaries.  But the gilt-edged Bible always lay on the centre-table, next to the magazine with the fashion-plates and the scrap-book with pictures from old annuals and illustrated papers.

The reader need not apprehend the recital, at full length, of such formidable preparations for the Widow’s tea-party as were required in the case of Colonel Sprowle’s Social Entertainment.  A tea-party, even in the country, is a comparatively simple and economical piece of business.  As soon as the Widow found that all her company were coming, she set to work, with the aid of her “smart” maid-servant and a daughter of her own, who was beginning to stretch and spread at a fearful rate, but whom she treated as a small child, to make the necessary preparations.  The silver had to be rubbed; also the grand plated urn,—­her mother’s before hers,—­style of the Empire,—­looking as if it might have been made to hold the Major’s ashes.  Then came the making and baking of cake and gingerbread, the smell whereof reached even as far as the sidewalk in front of the cottage, so that small boys returning from school snuffed it in the breeze, and discoursed with each other on its suggestions; so that the Widow Leech, who happened to pass, remembered she had n’t called on Marilly Raowens for a consid’ble spell, and turned in at the gate and rang three times with long intervals,—­but all in vain, the inside Widow having “spotted” the outside one through the blinds, and whispered to her aides-de-camp to let the old thing ring away till she pulled the bell out by the roots, but not to stir to open the door.

Widow Rowens was what they called a real smart, capable woman, not very great on books, perhaps, but knew what was what and who was who as well as another,—­knew how to make the little cottage look pretty, how to set out a tea-table, and, what a good many women never can find out, knew her own style and “got herself up tip-top,” as our young friend Master Geordie, Colonel Sprowle’s heir-apparent, remarked to his friend from one of the fresh-water colleges.  Flowers were abundant now, and she had dressed her rooms tastefully with them.  The centre-table had two or three gilt-edged books lying carelessly about on it, and some prints and a stereoscope with stereographs to match, chiefly groups of picnics, weddings, etc., in which the same somewhat fatigued looking ladies of fashion and brides received the