continued, in a less exalted strain,
"I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."

The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten
minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in
detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture,
pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile.
Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the
agent.

"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at
Villa Valley. I should like to see them."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I'll drive you past
them as you go to the train."

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to
interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn't the house
damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the
cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of
these queries affected Sophronia's spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of
pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage
again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

"Two stations?" I inquired.

"Yes," said he; "and one's as near to your house as the other."

"_Your_ house," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon
me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my
not heavily covered ribs--"_your_ house! Oh, Pierre! does not the
dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"

"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia's
mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That
Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I
learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large
paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn't it?
Very healthy, though, they say."

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a
reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us.
Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the
shore of which was a rolling-mill.

"Here's the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And
here's the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a
moment, however; then she applied