jugs and basins and real water--ay, and even soap. But in this abode of
luxury there was a real towel; so that a body could not only wash
himself, but wipe himself afterwards, and that is a sensation that, as
all dolls know, can be enjoyed only in the very first-class
establishments.

Then, in the drawing-room, there was a clock, which would tick just so
long as you continued to shake it (it never seemed to get tired); also a
picture and a piano, and a book upon the table, and a vase of flowers
that would upset the moment you touched it, just like a real vase of
flowers. Oh, there was style about this room, I can tell you.

But the glory of the house was its kitchen. There were all things that
heart could desire in this kitchen, saucepans with lids that took on and
off, a flat-iron and a rolling-pin. A dinner service for three occupied
about half the room, and what space was left was filled up by the stove--a
_real_ stove! Think of it, oh ye owners of dolls' houses, a stove in
which you could burn real bits of coal, and on which you could boil real
bits of potato for dinner--except when people said you mustn't, because
it was dangerous, and took the grate away from you, and blew out the
fire, a thing that hampers a cook.

I never saw a house more complete in all its details. Nothing had been
overlooked, not even the family. It lay on its back, just outside the
front door, proud but calm, waiting to be put into possession. It was
not an extensive family. It consisted of four--papa, and mamma, and
baby, and the hired girl; just the family for a beginner.

It was a well-dressed family too--not merely with grand clothes outside,
covering a shameful condition of things beneath, such as, alas! is too