ell, there's one comfort," said Jack; "you haven't paid for this
advice, so you won't be obliged to take it in order to save it."

"I should think not, indeed, but that isn't the trouble. These letters
are from my special friends, wise, practical people, who know
everything about building and housekeeping, and they speak from solemn
conviction based on personal experience."

"Moral: When the doctors differ, do as you please."

Three of the letters, reserved for the last on account of their unusual
bulk, contained actual plans. One was from an old school friend who had
married an architect and couldn't afford to send a wedding present, but
offered the plans as a sort of apology, privately feeling that they
would be the most valuable of all the gifts; the second was from a
married brother in Kansas who had just built himself a new house, and
thought his sister could not do better than use the same plans, which
he had "borrowed" from his architect; and the third was from Aunt
Melville, who was supposed (by herself) to hold the family destiny in
the hollow of her hand.

"For once," she wrote, "your father has done a most sensible thing.
Every girl ought to have a present of a new house on her wedding-day.
You were very silly to make such a fuss about the house that Jack
built, for it is a very stylish-looking house, even if it isn't quite
so convenient inside; but of course you can improve upon it, and
fortunately I can contribute just what you need--the plans of the house
that your Uncle Melville built for George last year. It isn't as large
as it ought to be, but it will suit you and Jack admirably. You must
tell me how much you have to spend. This house can be very prettily
built for eight or ten thousand dollars, and if you haven't as much as
that you must ask for more. The hall is decidedly stylish, and, with
the library at one side and drawing-room at the other, you will have
just room enough for your little social parties. The room behind the
drawing-room Jack needs for his private use, his study, office,
smoking-room or whatever he calls it--a place to keep his gun, his
top-boots, his fishing-rod and his horrid pipes; where he can revel to
his heart's content in the hideous disorder of a 'man's room,' pile as
much rubbish as he likes on the table, lock the doors and defy the rest
of the household on house-cleaning days. The dining-room is good and
the kitchen arrangements are perfect. George's wife has changed
s