The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke _will_ have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading--he is watching his children. Opposite to him sits his lady--a personage whom I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me--a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day! Mrs. Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning, noon, and, night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight--especially of the female sex--who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew no distinctions. 
The fire is heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke sits beside it with a book; but he is not reading - he is watching his children. Opposite him sits his lady: a large woman of grave aspect, wearing an expression of care - the sort of care of a person who deems it her duty to be gloomy. In Mrs. Yorke's opinion, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. 