We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia announced that her heart was set upon keeping house. My heart sank within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married life is, that when Sophronia\'s heart is set upon anything, the protests I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my own consciousness. Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still lower. Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings. I delight in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety. But when any of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous, absent-minded, and uncompanionable. What, then, would be my fate, after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were within twenty miles of New York. But Sophronia had decided that it was to be—and I,

"Mine not to make reply; Mine not to reason why; Mine but to do or die."

By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the full measure of the fate I feared. Sophronia has a highly imaginative nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers. So when I bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia\'s interest was excited in exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves. Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air. Rutherford Park—well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the scene in Mrs. Somebody\'s novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned name. Villa Valley—

"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was christened Peter, but Miss Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious—how absolutely enchanting it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don\'t you know?"

I did not previously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning, abundantly confirmed Sophronia\'s intuition regarding brooks and lakes, by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day, with a letter to the agent\'s resident partner.

It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent\'s carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed four hundred dollars.

"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name is enchanting."

The house itself did not support Sophronia\'s impression. It stood very near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors, in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington\'s headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.

"A Perfect Snuggery" did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation forcibly suggested a chicken coop.

"Charming Swiss Cottage" seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which objectionable matter had not been removed. "The House in the Woods" was approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.

"Silver Lake!" exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had penciled from the agent\'s descriptive list. "That, I am sure, will suit us. Don\'t you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at Villa Valley?"

I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature\'s most impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise—or, perhaps, of warning.

"Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream—a fateful dream."

"New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.

"I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis; "it looks to be entirely new."

"\'Tis, ma\'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn\'t been on a month."

"So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster—no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls—no tender romances have been woven under its eaves—no wistful yearnings—no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life—no—"

"I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma\'am, but I believe I\'ve got the very house you\'re looking for. How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall—"

"Exquisite—charming—enchanting—paradisaical—divine!" murmured Sophronia.

"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.

This latter bit of information aroused my strongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once.

The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vit?s, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:

"My ideal!"

Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:

"Enough! We take it!"

"Hadn\'t you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested.

"Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate, "my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are never disunited, nor are—"

"I don\'t believe I\'ve got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps we can get in through one of the windows."

The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again Sophronia\'s arm encircled me, and she murmured:

"Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"

"It\'s a good way from the station, pet," I ventured to remark.

Sophronia\'s enthusiasm gave place to scorn; she withdrew her affectionate demonstration, and replied:

"Spoken like a real man! The practical, always—the ideal, never! Once I dreamed of the companionship of a congenial spirit, but, alas! \'A good way from the station!\' Were I a man, I would, to reside in such a bower, plod cheerily over miles of prosaic clods."

"And you\'d get your shapely boots most shockingly muddy," I thought, as the agent opened one of the front windows and invited us to enter.

"French windows, too!" exclaimed Sophronia; "oh Pierre! And see that exquisite old mantel; it looks as if it had been carved from ebony upon the banks of one of the Queen of the Adriatic\'s noiseless by-ways. And these tiny rooms, how cozy—how like fairy land! Again I declare, we will take it! Let us return at once to the city—how I loathe the thought of treading its noisy thoroughfares again!—and order our carpets and furniture."

"Are you sure you won\'t be lonesome here, darling?" I asked. "It is quite a distance from any neighbors."

"A true woman is never lonesome when she can commune with Nature," replied Sophronia. "Besides," she continued, in a less exalted strain, "I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."

The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture, pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile. Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the agent.

"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at Villa Valley. I should like to see them."

"Certainly, ma\'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I\'ll drive you past them as you go to the train."

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn\'t the house damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of these queries affected Sophronia\'s spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

"Two stations?" I inquired.

"Yes," said he; "and one\'s as near to your house as the other."

"Your house," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my not heavily covered ribs—"your house! Oh, Pierre! does not the dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"

"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia\'s mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn\'t it? Very healthy, though, they say."

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us. Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the shore of which was a rolling-mill.

"Here\'s the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And here\'s the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose and whispered: "Dellwild! Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod\'t you thig so?"

During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture stores, and bric-a-brac shops. The agent was very kind; he sent a boy to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any of our goods. Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to Villa Valley, three double-truck loads of furniture preceding us by way of the turnpike. I had thoughtfully ordered quite a quantity of provisions put into the house, in advance of our arrival. Hiring a carriage at the station, and obtaining the keys of the agent, we drove to our residence. Sophronia, to use her own expression, \'felt as she imagined Juno did, when first installed as mistress of the rosy summit of the divine mount; while I, though scarcely in a mood to compare myself with Jove, was conscious of a new and delightful sense of manliness. The shades and curtains were in the windows, the sun shone warmly upon them, and a bright welcome seemed to extend itself from the whole face of the cottage. I unlocked the door and tenderly kissed my darling under the lintel; then we stepped into the parlor. Sophronia immediately exclaimed:

"Gracious!"

The word that escaped my lips, I shrink from placing upon the printed page. A barrel of flour, one of sugar, another of corned beef, and a half-barrel of molasses, a box of candles, a can of kerosene oil, some cases of canned fruits, a box of laundry soap, three wash-tubs, and a firkin of butter—all these, and many other packages, covered the parlor floor, and sent up a smell suggestive of an unventilated grocery. The flour had sifted between the staves of the barrel, the molasses had dripped somewhat, the box of soap had broken open and a single bar had been fastened to the carpet by the seal of a boot-heel of heroic size. Sophronia stepped into little pools of molasses, and the effect seemed to be that the carpet rose to bestow sweet clinging kisses upon the dainty feet of the loveliest of her sex.

"Horrible!" ejaculated Sophronia.

"And here come the trucks," said I, looking out of the window, "and the one with the parlor furniture is in front."

Fortunately, the truckmen were good-tempered and amenable to reason, expressed by means of currency; so we soon had the provisions moved into the kitchen. Then the senior truckman kindly consented to dispose of an old tarpaulin, at about twice the price of a piece of velvet carpet of similar size, and this we spread upon the parlor floor while the furniture should be brought in. Sophronia assumed the direction of proceedings, but it soon became evident that she was troubled.

"The room, evidently, was not arranged for this furniture," said she.

And she spoke truthfully. We had purchased a lounge, a large centre-table, an etagere, a Turkish chair, two reception chairs, four chairs to match the lounge, a rocker or two, an elegant firescreen, and several other articles of furniture, and there was considerable difficulty experienced, not only in arranging them, but in getting them into the parlor at all. Finally, the senior truckman spoke:


A bright welcome from the cottage.
A bright welcome seemed to extend itself from
the whole face of the cottage.


"The only way to git everythin\' in, is to fix \'em the way we do at the store—set \'em close together."

He spoke truly; and Sophronia, with a sigh, assented to such an arrangement, suggesting that we could rearrange the furniture afterward, and stipulating only that the lounge should be placed in the front of the room. This done, there were three-and-a-half feet of space between the front of the lounge and the inside of the window-casings.

We can, at least, sit upon it and lose our souls in the dying glories of the sun upon the eternal hills, and—"Gracious, Pierre, where\'s the piano to go?"

Sure enough; and the piano was already at the door. The senior truckman cast his professional eye at the vacant space, and spoke:

"You can put it right there," said he. "There won\'t be no room fur the stool to go behind it; but if you put the key-board to the front, an\' open the winder, you can stand outdoors an\' play."

Sophronia eyed the senior truckman suspiciously for a moment, but not one of his honest facial muscles moved, so Sophronia exclaimed:

"True. And how romantic!"

While the piano was being placed I became conscious of some shocking language being used on the stairway. Looking out I saw two truckmen and the headboard of our new bedstead inextricably mixed on the stairs.

"Why don\'t you go on?" I asked.

The look which one of the truckmen gave me I shall not Forget until my dying day; the man\'s companion remarked that when (qualified) fools bought furniture for such (doubly qualified) houses, they ought to have brains enough to get things small enough to get up the (trebly qualified) stairs.

I could not deny the logic of this statement, impious as were the qualifying adjectives which were used thereupon. But something had to be done; we could not put the bedstead together upon the stairway and sleep upon it there, even were there not other articles of furniture imperatively demanding a right of way.

"Try to get it down again," said I.

They tried, and, after one mighty effort, succeeded; they also brought down several square yards of ceiling plaster and the entire handrail of the stair.

"Think the ceilings of these rooms is high enough to let that bed stand up?" asked the senior truckman.

I hastily measured the height of the ceilings, and then of the bedstead, and found the latter nearly eighteen inches too high. Then I called Sophronia: the bedstead was of her selection, and was an elegant sample of fine woods and excessive ornamentation. It was a precious bit of furniture, but time was precious, too. The senior truckman suggested that the height of the bedstead might be reduced about two feet by the removal of the most lofty ornament, and that a healthy man could knock it off with his fist.

"Let it be done," said Sophronia. "What matter? A king discrowned is still a king at heart."

The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the bedstead filled its appointed place. The remaining furniture followed as fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold. We also deposited in the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.

At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the roof of the cottage, and remarked:

"It\'s none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things spiled. I\'d watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained."

I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which was presented by Sophronia\'s outstretched arms.

"Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed; "at last we are in our own home! No uncongenial spirits about us—no one to molest or annoy—no unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work of her free, divine hands."

A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice which accompanied it remarked:
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