All the little ornaments he had worn, his journals, his furniture, his Dutch spittoon, his spy-glass hanging by the mantel, were all there.

The widow had stopped the hands of the clock at the hour of his death, to which they always pointed.

The room still smelt of the powder and the tobacco of the deceased.

The hearth was as he left it.

To her, entering there, he was again visible in the many articles which told of his daily habits.
His tall cane with its gold head was where he had last placed it, with his buckskin gloves close by.