The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment.

There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures.

That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.
There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era.

It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners--covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room.

The floor is of polished oak.
God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it--their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.
The bed in that old chamber is occupied.