t
weeks you will be adrift upon a sea of domestic uncertainty. For weeks
you have visited the noisy city, hunting the proud and lofty mansion and
the tortuous and humiliating flat, and it has all come to this--a
steam-heated "family-hotel," until such time when you can find summer
quarters; and then, with the fall, a new beginning of the weary search.
And then--and then----

Coming and going along the street, your friends and neighbors give you
cheery greeting, to which you respond somewhat absent-mindedly. You can
hear the voices of your children and their little neighbor-friends
playing in the empty garden plot. Your talk flags. You do not know just
what you are thinking about; still less do you know what your wife is
thinking about--but you know that you wish the children would stop
laughing, and that the people would stop going by and nodding
pleasantly.

And now comes one who does not go by. He turns in at the gate and walks
up the gravel path. He smiles and bows at you as if the whole world were
sunshine--a trim little figure, dressed with such artistic care that
there is cheerfulness in the crease of his trousers and suavity in his
very shirt-front. He greets Mrs. Modestus with a world of courtesy, and
then he sits confidentially down by your side and says: "My dear sir, I
am come to talk a little business with you."

No, you will not talk business. Your mind is firmly made up. Nothing
will induce you to renew the lease.

"But, my dear sir," he says, with an enthusiasm that would be as
boisterous as an ocean wave, if it had not so much oil on its surface:
"I don't want you to renew the lease. I have a much better plan than
that! I want you to _buy the house_!"

And then he goes on to tell you all about it; how the estate must be
closed up; how the house may be had for a song; and he names a figure so
small that it gives you two separate mental shocks; first, to realize
that it is within your means; second, to find that he is telling the
truth.

He goes on talking softly, suggestively, telling you what a bargain it
is, telling you all the things you have put out of your mind for many
months; telling you--telling you nothing, and well he knows it. Three
years of life under that roof have done his pleading for him.

[Illustration]

Then your wife suddenly reaches out her hand and touches you furtively.

"Oh, buy it," she whispers, huskily, "if you can." And then she gathers
up her skirts and hurries into