"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:

[Illustration: 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:

"Didn't they bring in any stove, ma'am?"

Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered:

"No!" looking very blank at the same time.

"Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?" asked the girl.

"In the range, of course," said Sophronia.

Our domestic's next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what was her nationality:

"An' do ye think that I'd ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the house? Dhivil a bit!"

"Never mind, dear," said I soothingly; "I'm an old soldier; I'll make a fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot biscuit as you ever tasted. And I'll order a stove the first thing in the morning."

Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased. Then I asked the domestic to get some water while I should make the fire. The honest daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor cistern on the premises.

Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia's hearing, that we were a couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent had told the truth. But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked me for my want of faith in the agent.

"Pierre," said she, "it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with falsehood upon the word of a menial. I know that agent tells the truth, for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to the Presbyterian Church."

Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself. But if either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not find the slightest outward evidence of it. Finally, to be thorough, I paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.

While at this work, I was approached by a gentleman, who seemed to come from a house two or three hundred yards off.

"Moved into the cottage, it seems," said he.

"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the place? The agent said there was excellent water here, but I can't find it."

"He meant there was good water in my well, where all occupants of the cottage have drawn water for several years. The well belonging to your place was covered up when the road was cut through, a few years ago, and neighbor Hubbell--well, _I_ don't say anything against him--neighbors must be neighborly, but folks _do_ say he's too stingy to dig a new well. That's the reason the cottage hasn't been occupied much for the last few years. But everybody is welcome to draw from my well--come along."

I followed the kind-hearted man, but I wished that the liquid depth of the agent's blue eyes had a proper parallel upon the estate which he had imposed upon me. I returned as full of wrath as my pail was of water, when, across the fence, I saw Sophronia's face, so suffused with tender exaltation, that admiration speedily banished ill nature.

But it was for a brief moment only, for Sophronia's finely-cut lips parted and their owner exclaimed:

"Oh, Pierre! What a charming pastoral picture--you and the pail, and the lawn as a background! I wish we might always have to get water from our neighbor's, well."