parlour beyond I could see the innumerable things of beauty--furniture,
pictures, books, so very, very much of everything--with which the room
was filled. I saw it now, as I had often seen it before, with a peculiar
sense of weariness. How all these things, though beautiful enough in
themselves, must clutter up a man's life!

Do you know, the more I look into life, the more things it seems to me I
can successfully lack--and continue to grow happier. How many kinds of
food I do not need, nor cooks to cook them, how much curious clothing
nor tailors to make it, how many books that I never read, and pictures
that are not worth while! The farther I run, the more I feel like
casting aside all such impedimenta--lest I fail to arrive at the far
goal of my endeavour.

I like to think of an old Japanese nobleman I once read about, who
ornamented his house with a single vase at a time, living with it,
absorbing its message of beauty, and when he tired of it, replacing it
with another. I wonder if he had the right way, and we, with so many
objects to hang on our walls, place on our shelves, drape on our chairs,
and spread on our floors, have mistaken our course and placed our hearts
upon the multiplicity rather than the quality of our possessions!

Presently Mr. Starkweather appeared in the doorway. He wore a velvet
smoking-jacket and slippers; and somehow, for a bright morning like
this, he seemed old, and worn, and cold.

"Well, well, friend," he said, "I'm glad to see you."

He said it as though he meant it.

"Come into the library; it's the only room in the whole house that is
comfortably warm. You've no idea what a task it is to heat a place like
this in really cold weather. No sooner do I find a man who can run my
furnace than he goes off and leaves me."

"I can sympathize with you," I said, "we often have trouble at our house
with the man who builds the fires."

He looked around at me quizzically.

"He lies too long in bed in the morning," I said.

By this time we had arrived at the library, where a bright fire was
burning in the grate. It was a fine big room, with dark oak furnishings
and books in cases along one wall, but this morning it had a dishevelled
and untidy look. On a little table at one side of the fireplace were the
remains of a breakfast; at the other a number of wraps were thrown
carelessly upon a chair. As I came in Mrs. Starkweather rose from her
place, drawing a silk scarf around her shoulders.