I noticed these objects cursorily only- in them there was nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth，sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young，graceful women- ladies in every point- sat，one in a low rocking-chair，the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen，which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl- in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat.

A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic，and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet，as I gazed on them，I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them handsome- they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each bent over a book，they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported a second candle and two great volumes，to which they frequently referred，paring them，seemingly，with the smaller books they held in their hands，like people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it，I could hear the cinders fall from the grate，the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman"s knitting-needles. When，therefore，a voice broke the strange stillness at last，it was audible enough to me.