incontinently on hearing a description of Warble.

The bride chuckled and smiled engagingly as the car slithered round a
corner and stopped under the _porte cochere_ of a great house set in the
midst of a landscape.

Neo-Colonial, of a purity unsurpassed by the Colonists themselves.

A park stretching in front; gardens at the back; steps up to a great porch,
and a front door copied from the Frary house in Old Deerfield.

A great hall--at its back twin halves of a perfect staircase. To the right,
a charming morning room, where Petticoat led his bride.

"You like it? It's not inharmonious. I left it as it is--in case you care
to rebuild or redecorate."

"It's a sweet home--" she was touched by his indifference. "So artistic."

Petticoat winced, but he was a polite chap, and he only said, carelessly,
"Yes, home is where the art is," and let it go at that.

In the hall and the great library she was conscious of vastness and
magnificent distances, but, she thought, if necessary, I can use roller
skates.

As she followed Petticoat and the current shift of servants upstairs, she
quavered to herself like the fat little gods of the hearth.

She took her husband into her arms, and felt that at last she had realized