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-vitaes, 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: