es of stations within a
reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia's interest was excited in
exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves.
Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a
dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck
Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air.
Rutherford Park--well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the
scene in Mrs. Somebody's novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned
name. Villa Valley--

"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore
her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was
christened Peter, but _Miss_ Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon
me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our
home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious--how absolutely enchanting
it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don't you
know?"

I did _not_ previously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity
of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is
regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly
assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an
advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa
Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning,
abundantly confirmed Sophronia's intuition regarding brooks and lakes,
by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other
attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day,
with a letter to the agent's resident partner.

It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent's
carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed
four hundred dollars.

"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name
is enchanting."

The house itself did not support Sophronia's impression. It stood very
near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three
large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without
passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork
would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors,
in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in
Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington's
headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly
asked whether