ebs which are untangled the next day."

"You see," said Jennie, "they have only just so much money, and they
want everything they can think of under the sun. There's Bob been
studying architectural antiquities, and nobody knows what, and sketching
all sorts of curly-whorlies; and Marianne has her notions about a parlor
and boudoir and china-closets and bedroom-closets; and Bob wants a
baronial hall; and mamma stands out for linen-closets and bathing-rooms
and all that; and so among them all it will just end in getting them
head over ears in debt."

The thing struck me as not improbable.

"I don't know, Jennie, whether my writing an article is going to prevent
all this; but as my time in the 'Atlantic' is coming round, I may as
well write on what I am obliged to think of, and so I will give a paper
on the subject to enliven our next evening's session."

So that evening, when Bob and Marianne had dropped in as usual, and
while the customary work of drawing and rubbing-out was going on at Mrs.
Crowfield's sofa, I produced my paper and read as follows:--

OUR HOUSE.

There is a place called "Our House," which everybody knows of. The
sailor talks of it in his dreams at sea. The wounded soldier, turning in
his uneasy hospital-bed, brightens at the word,--it is like the dropping
of cool water in the desert, like the touch of cool fingers on a burning
brow. "Our house," he says feebly, and the light comes back into his dim
eyes,--for all homely charities, all fond thoughts, all purities, all
that man loves on earth or hopes for in heaven, rise with the word.

"Our house" may be in any style of architecture, low or high. It may be
the brown old farm-house, with its tall well-sweep, or the one-story
gambrel-roofed cottage, or the large, square, white house, with green
blinds, under the wind-swung elms of a century, or it may be the
log-cabin of the wilderness, with its one room,--still there is a spell
in the memory of it beyond all conjurations. Its stone and brick and
mortar are like no other; its very clapboards and shingles are dear to
us, powerful to bring back the memories of early days, and all that is
sacred in home-love.

* * * * *

"Papa is getting quite sentimental," whispered Jennie, loud enough for
me to hear. I shook my head at her impressively, and went on undaunted.

* * * * *

There is no one fact of our human existence that has a stronge