"Mrs. Sinclair has never called on me."

"I don't want you to make any call," said I. "The house is for sale.
I am a New Yorker. I am looking about Wheathedge for a place. I see
this place is for sale. I should like to look at it. And of course
my wife must look at it too."

"Oh! that indeed," said my wife, "that's another matter. I have no
particular objection to that."

"Besides," said I, "I really should like to know the price of such a
place in Wheathedge."

"Very good," said Jennie.

So we drove up to the gate, fastened the horse, and inquired of Mrs.
Sinclair, who came in person to the door, if we could see the house.
Certainly. She would be very happy to show it to us. And a very
pretty house it was--and is still. There was a cozy little parlor
with a bay window looking out on the river, there was an equally
cozy little dining-room, and there was an L for a sitting-room--which
I instantly converted in my imagination into a library--which looked
with one window on the river and with another on the mountains.
There was a very convenient kitchen built out in a wing from one end
of the dining-room, and three chambers over the three downstairs
rooms, from the larger one of which, over the sitting-room, we could
take in at a glance the Presbyterian church, the blacksmith's shop,
and the country store, with the wandering and aimless road, and a
score or two of neighbor's homes which lay along it; for the cottage
was on the hillside, and elevated considerably above the main