The curate had gone up to his own room, a spacious attic, quiet and secluded, surrounded by large lofts, a little world in itself. In spite of the sloping ceiling and scanty light from the one window, it was a comfortable room. There was a writing table, a sofa, and an old-fashioned mahogany desk; shelves filled with books, a big armchair, little mats on the floor, and a bed behind a screen. The air was fresh and flowerscented. The curate was one of those marvels among theologians—a non-smoker. He was also an ardent lover of flowers; the window was full of plants, and an ivy twined its pale green shoots round the window frame.
A small collection of family likenesses hung over the sofa between two big portraits of Luther and Melancthon. There was his father, a tall, thin, stately-looking man leaning against a table with his hat in his hand, and the broad ribbon of an order in the buttonhole of his tight-fitting coat. By his side hung a little Daguerreotype picture of his mother, surrounded by a wreath of yellow everlastings. It evidently dated from Mrs Hansted's maiden days. It was so bleached by the sun, that one could only through a haze catch a glimpse of a youthful face with the hair dressed high, and large, bright, wide open eyes. Besides these, there were portraits of the curate's
