On the mantel-shelf stood a branching gilt candlestick, filled with colored candles, and strung around with prisms, which glittered feebly in the low lamp-light.

There was a bulging, sheet-iron wood stove--the Maxwells had always eschewed coal; beside it lay a little pile of sticks, brought in after the chill of death had come over the house.

There were a few old engravings--a head of Washington, the Landing of the Pilgrims, the Webster death-bed scene, and one full-length portrait of the old statesman, standing majestically, scroll in hand, in a black frame.
As the oil burned low, the indistinct figures upon the carpet and wall-paper grew more indistinct, the brilliant colors of the prisms turned white, and the fine black and white lights in the death-bed picture ran together.
Finally the lamp went out.

Mrs.Field had spied matches over on the shelf, but she did not dare to rise to cross the room to get them and find another lamp.

She did not dare to stir.
After her light went out, there was still a pale glimmer upon the opposite wall, and the white face of the silent clock showed out above the cumbersome shadow of the great mahogany piece.