"But the grandchild don't follow as a matter of course," said I.

"No," she answered, "but I shall never like French flats."

And we discussed them no more.

For some weeks we examined into every style of economic and respectable housekeeping, and many methods of living in what Euphemia called "imitation comfort" were set aside as unworthy of consideration.

"My dear," said Euphemia, one evening, "what we really ought to do is to build. Then we would have exactly the house we want."

"Very true," I replied; "but to build a house, a man must have money."

"Oh no!" said she, "or at least not much. For one thing, you might join a building a.s.sociation. In some of those societies I know that you only have to pay a dollar a week."

"But do you suppose the a.s.sociation builds houses for all its members?"

I asked.

"Of course I suppose so. Else why is it called a building a.s.sociation?"

I had read a good deal about these organizations, and I explained to Euphemia that a dollar a week was never received by any of them in payment for a new house.

"Then build yourself," she said; "I know how that can be done."

"Oh, it's easy enough," I remarked, "if you have the money."

"No, you needn't have any money," said Euphemia, rather hastily. "Just let me show you. Supposing, for instance, that you want to build a house worth--well, say twenty thousand dollars, in some pretty town near the city."

"I would rather figure on a cheaper house than that for a country place," I interrupted.

"Well then, say two thousand dollars. You get masons, and carpenters, and people to dig the cellar, and you engage them to build your house.

You needn't pay them until it's done, of course. Then when it's all finished, borrow two thousand dollars and give the house as security.

After that you see, you have only to pay the interest on the borrowed money. When you save enough money to pay back the loan, the house is your own. Now, isn't that a good plan?"

"Yes," said I, "if there could be found people who would build your house and wait for their money until some one would lend you its full value on a mortgage."

"Well," said Euphemia, "I guess they could be found if you would only look for them."

"I'll look for them, when I go to heaven," I said.

We gave up for the present, the idea of building or buying a house, and determined to rent a small place in the country, and then, as Euphemia wisely said, if we liked it, we might buy it. After she had dropped her building projects she thought that one ought to know just how a house would suit before having it on one's hands.

We could afford something better than a ca.n.a.l-boat now, and therefore we were not so restricted as in our first search for a house. But, the one thing which troubled my wife--and, indeed, caused me much anxious thought, was that scourge of almost all rural localities--tramps. It would be necessary for me to be away all day,--and we could not afford to keep a man,--so we must be careful to get a house somewhere off the line of ordinary travel, or else in a well-settled neighborhood, where there would be some one near at hand in case of unruly visitors.

"A village I don't like," said Euphemia: "there is always so much gossip, and people know all about what you have, and what you do. And yet it would be very lonely, and perhaps dangerous, for us to live off somewhere, all by ourselves. And there is another objection to a village. We don't want a house with a small yard and a garden at the back. We ought to have a dear little farm, with some fields for corn, and a cow, and a barn and things of that sort. All that would be lovely. I'll tell you what we want," she cried, seized with a sudden inspiration; "we ought to try to get the end-house of a village. Then our house could be near the neighbors, and our farm could stretch out a little way into the country beyond us. Let us fix our minds upon such a house and I believe we can get it."

So we fixed our minds, but in the course of a week or two we unfixed them several times to allow the consideration of places, which otherwise would have been out of range; and during one of these intervals of mental disfixment we took a house.

It was not the end-house of a village, but it was in the outskirts of a very small rural settlement. Our nearest neighbor was within vigorous shouting distance, and the house suited us so well in other respects, that we concluded that this would do. The house was small, but large enough. There were some trees around it, and a little lawn in front.

There was a garden, a small barn and stable, a pasture field, and land enough besides for small patches of corn and potatoes. The rent was low, the water good, and no one can imagine how delighted we were.

We did not furnish the whole house at first, but what mattered it? We had no horse or cow, but the pasture and barn were ready for them. We did not propose to begin with everything at once.

Our first evening in that house was made up of hours of unalloyed bliss.

We walked from room to room; we looked out on the garden and the lawn; we sat on the little porch while I smoked.

"We were happy at Rudder Grange," said Euphemia; "but that was only a ca.n.a.l-boat, and could not, in the nature of things, have been a permanent home."

"No," said I, "it could not have been permanent. But, in many respects, it was a delightful home. The very name of it brings pleasant thoughts."

"It was a nice name," said Euphemia, "and I'll tell you what we might do: Let us call this place Rudder Grange--the New Rudder Grange! The name will do just as well for a house as for a boat."

I agreed on the spot, and the house was christened.

Our household was small; we had a servant--a German woman; and we had ourselves, that was all.

I did not do much in the garden; it was too late in the season. The former occupant had planted some corn and potatoes, with a few other vegetables, and these I weeded and hoed, working early in the morning and when I came home in the afternoon. Euphemia tied up the rose-vines, trimmed the bushes, and with a little rake and hoe she prepared a flower-bed in front of the parlor-window. This exercise gave us splendid appet.i.tes, and we loved our new home more and more.

Our German girl did not suit us exactly at first, and day by day she grew to suit us less. She was a quiet, kindly, pleasant creature, and delighted in an out-of-door life. She was as willing to weed in the garden as she was to cook or wash. At first I was very much pleased with this, because, as I remarked to Euphemia, you can find very few girls who would be willing to work in the garden, and she might be made very useful.

But, after a time, Euphemia began to get a little out of patience with her. She worked out-of-doors entirely too much. And what she did there, as well as some of her work in the house, was very much like certain German literature--you did not know how it was done, or what it was for.

One afternoon I found Euphemia quite annoyed.

"Look here," she said, "and see what that girl has been at work at, nearly all this afternoon. I was upstairs sewing and thought she was ironing. Isn't it too provoking?"

It WAS provoking. The contemplative German had collected a lot of short ham-bones--where she found them I cannot imagine--and had made of them a border around my wife's flower-bed. The bones stuck up straight a few inches above the ground, all along the edge of the bed, and the marrow cavity of each one was filled with earth in which she had planted seeds.

"'These,' she says, 'will spring up and look beautiful,'" said Euphemia; "they have that style of thing in her country."

"Then let her take them off with her to her country," I exclaimed.

"No, no," said Euphemia, hurriedly, "don't kick them out. It would only wound her feelings. She did it all for the best, and thought it would please me to have such a border around my bed. But she is too independent, and neglects her proper work. I will give her a week's notice and get another servant. When she goes we can take these horrid bones away. But I hope n.o.body will call on us in the meantime."

"Must we keep these things here a whole week?" I asked.

"Oh, I can't turn her away without giving her a fair notice. That would be cruel."

I saw the truth of the remark, and determined to bear with the bones and her rather than be unkind.

That night Euphemia informed the girl of her decision, and the next morning, soon after I had left, the good German appeared with her bonnet on and her carpet-bag in her hand, to take leave of her mistress.

"What!" cried Euphemia. "You are not going to-day?"

"If it is goot to go at all it is goot to go now," said the girl.

"And you will go off and leave me without any one in the house, after my putting myself out to give you a fair notice? It's shameful!"

"I think it is very goot for me to go now," quietly replied the girl.

"This house is very loneful. I will go to-morrow in the city to see your husband for my money. Goot morning." And off she trudged to the station.