oyal little heart!

But what do our neighbors know or care about that book? What, for that
matter, do they know or care about the constellation Leo, to say
nothing of its tail and the satellites to the stellar component parts
thereof? I thank God that my hospitable neighbor, Mrs. Baylor, has
never suffered a passion for astronomical research to lead her into a
neglect of the noble art of compounding rhubarb pies, and I am equally
grateful that no similar passion has stood in the way of good Mrs.
Rush's enthusiastic and artistic construction of the most delicious
shortcake ever put into the human mouth.

The Denslows, the Baylors, the Rushes, the Tiltmans and the rest have
taken a great interest in us, and they have shared the enthusiasm (I
had almost said rapture) with which Alice and I discoursed of "the
house" which we were going to have "sometime." They did not, however,
agree with us, nor did they agree with one another, as to the kind of
house this particular house of ours ought to be. Each one had a house
for sale, and each one insisted that his or her house was particularly
suited to our requirements. The merits of each of these houses were
eloquently paraded by the owners thereof, and the demerits were as
eloquently pointed out by others who had houses of their own to sell
"on easy terms and at long time."

It was not long, as you can well suppose, before Alice and I were
intimately acquainted with all the weak points in our neighbors'
residences. We knew all about the Baylors' leaky roof, the Denslows'
cracked plastering, the Tiltmans' back stairway, the Rushes' exposed
water pipes, the Bollingers' defective chimney, the Dobells' rickety
foundation, and a thousand other scandalous details which had been
dinged into us and which we treasured up to serve as a warning to us
when we came to have a house--"_the_ house" which we had talked about
so many years.

I can readily understand that there were those who regarded our talk
and our planning simply as so much effervescence. We had harped upon
the same old string so long--or at least Alice had--that, not
unfrequently, even we smilingly asked ourselves whether it were likely
that our day-dreaming would ever be realized. I dimly recall that upon
several occasions I went so far as to indulge in amiable sarcasms upon
Alice's exuberant mania. I do not remember just what these witticisms
were, but I daresay they were bright enough, for I never yet have
ind