By a tender but vigorous application of the remedies usual in such

cases, Jack was speedily restored to his wonted equanimity, and Jill,

laying Uncle Harry aside, took up the architect's suggestions

concerning the plumbing, which referred rather to its relations to the

plan of the house than to the details of the work itself.

"A bath-room, with all the plumbing articles it usually contains, must

possess at least three special characteristics. It must be easily

warmed in cold weather, otherwise the annual bill for repairs will be

greater than the cost of coal for the whole house; its walls, floors

and ceilings must be impervious to sound. The music of murmuring brooks

is delightful to our ears, so is the patter of the soft rain on the

roof; but the splashing of water in a, bath-tub and the gurgling of

unseen water-pipes are not pleasant accompaniments to a dinner-table

conversation. Thirdly, it must be perfectly ventilated--not the

drainpipes merely,--but the room itself in summer and in winter. Two of

the above conditions can best be secured by arranging to have this

important room placed in a detached or semi-detached wing; and here

begin the compromises between convenience, cost and safety. It is

convenient to have a bath-room attached to every chamber, and there is

no doubt that this may be done with entire safety, provided you do not

regard the cost. In your plan I have adopted the middle course. There

is one bath-room for all the chambers of the second floor, not too

remote but somewhat retired, and having no communication with any other

room. It is ventilated by a large open flue carried up directly through

the roof; it has also an outside window and inlets for fresh air near

the floor. All the walls and partitions around it will be double and

filled with mineral wool, and the floors will be deafened. The 'house

side' of the water-closet traps will have three-inch iron pipes running

to the ventilating flue beside the kitchen-chimney, a flue that will

always be warm, and therefore certain to give a strong upward draught

at all times, which cannot be said of any other flue in the house, not

even of the main drain, or soil-pipe, which passes up through the roof.

It would be easy to keep other flues warmed in cold weather by

steam-pipes, but in summer you will have no steam for heating purposes.

A 'circulation-pipe' might be attached to a boiler on the kitchen range

for this purpose, but in the present case such a contrivance would cost

more than the iron pipe carried from the bath-room to the flue that is

warmed by the kitchen fire. A good way to build this ventilating flue

is to inclose the smoke-pipe from the range, which may be of iron or

glazed earthen pipe, in a larger brick flue or chamber (Fig. 1),

keeping it in place by bars of iron laid into the masonry. The rising

current of warm air around the heated smoke-pipe will be as constant

and reliable as the trade winds. It will be well, indeed, if all your

chimneys are made in a similar manner; that is, by enclosing

hard-burned glazed pipe in a thin wall of bricks. Such chimneys will

not only draw better than those made in the usual way, but there will

be less danger from 'defective flues.' A four-inch wall of bricks

between us and destruction by fire is a frail barrier, especially if

the work is carelessly done or the mortar has crumbled from the joints.

To build the chimneys with double or eight-inch walls makes them very

large, more expensive, and still not as good as when they contain the

smooth round flues. To leave an air-chamber beside or between them for

ventilating (Fig. 2), is better than to open directly into the

smoke-flue, because it will not impair the draught for the fire, and

there will be no danger of a sooty odor in the room when the

circulation happens to be downward, as it will be occasionally. The

outside chimney, if there is one, should have an extra air-chamber

between the very outer wall and the back of the fireplace to save heat

(Fig. 3), a precaution that removes to a great extent the common

objection to such chimneys. Whatever else you do, let these 'windpipes

of good hospitalitie' have all the room they need. I shall not

willingly carry them off by any devious way to be hidden in an obscure

corner or dark closet, nor yet to give them a more respectable and

well-balanced position on the roof. Like the wild forest trees they

shall grow straight up toward heaven from the spot where they are first

planted. If we happen to want a window where the chimney stands in an

outer wall we will make one between the flues, as one might build a hut

in the huge branches of a mighty oak. It isn't the best place for the

window or the hut, but circumstances may justify it; as, for instance,

when we must have the outlook in a certain direction, but cannot spare

the wall-space for a window beside the chimney. The jambs beside a

window so situated will be very wide, and you may, if you please,

extend the view of the landscape indefinitely by setting two mirrors

_vis-à-vis_ in the opening at either side. This will also send the

sunshine into the room after the sun has passed by the other windows

on the same side of the house. It is rather a pretty fancy, too, when

the outside view does not require a clear window, to set a picture in

colored glass above the mantel, and the same thins: may be arranged in

the sideboard, if it happens to stand against the outer wall. These are

_fancies_, however, which lose their beauty and fitness unless they

seem to have been spontaneously produced. There should be no apparent

striving for effect."

[Illustration: SAFE AND SAVING FLUES.]

[Illustration: SAFE AND SAVING FLUES.]

[Illustration: A PICTURE IN GLASS OVER THE FIREPLACE.]

"I like the idea of setting mirrors in the deep window-jambs, whether

they are in the chimney or out of it," said Jill. "If I was obliged to

live in a room where the sun never shone of its own accord, I would set

a trap for it baited with large mirrors fixed on some sort of a

windlass in a way to send the sunshine straight into my windows."

"Capital! You could do that easily, and if you wanted a green-house on

the north side it would only be necessary to set up a few

looking-glasses to pour a blazing sun upon it all day long. You might

need a little clockwork to keep them adjusted at the right angles, but

Yankee invention ought to be equal to that. I have no doubt we shall

see patent sunshine-distributors in the market very shortly if your

idea gets abroad; in fact, I shouldn't be surprised to hear that a

company proposed to set up mammoth reflectors to keep the sun from

setting at all until he drops into the Pacific Ocean."

[Illustration: GLASS OF MANY COLORS, SHAPES AND SIZES.]

"Well, you may laugh at my invention; I shall surely try it when I am

obliged to live in a house that does not get sunlight in the regular

way. As for the stained glass picture over the chimney-piece, I should

like it for the bright color and because the lamps would make it so

charming from the street outside. I shall also want colored glass in

the upper part of the bay windows. The architect says we can have it

and still keep the lower panes clear and large. He sends some sketches

by way of suggestion, and thinks we may use it in the lower part of

some of the windows to conceal a window-seat or other furniture. I

should prefer screens of some other kind in such places, keeping the

stained glass up where it would show against the sky. He says this

colored glass is not necessarily expensive; that it may be set in

common wood-sash or in lead-sash, as we please, and that it will not

affect the usual opening and closing of the windows. He advises

plate-glass for the larger lights, if we can afford it, not because it

gives the house a more elegant appearance, though that is not a wholly

unworthy motive, but because a beautiful landscape is so much more

beautiful when it can be plainly seen. The instinct that prompts us to

throw the window wide open in order to get a more satisfactory view is

an unanswerable argument in favor of large, clear lights of glass for

windows intended for outlooks."

"And here is an illustration right before us," said Jack. "I am

impelled by a powerful impulse to open the window and see if I can

recognize the lady driving up the street. It wouldn't be good manners,

but I wish the window was plate-glass."

To Jack's astonishment, however, Jill threw open the window and waved

her handkerchief in cordial salutation as Aunt Jerusha drove slowly up

to the house. "Doing her own work" for half a century had not rendered

her incapable of taking and enjoying a carriage ride of fifteen miles

alone to visit her niece.

Like all wise people who are able to give advice, Aunt Jerusha offered

none until it was asked, and then gave only in small doses. She had

never seen the house that Jack built, but had heard much of it from the

friends and relatives who had never underrated Jill's obstinacy in

refusing to accept it as a permanent home.

"I almost wonder at you, Jill, for being so set against it. I'm sure

it's a fine house and cost a good deal of money. There must be some

drawback that doesn't show. I hope It isn't haunted."

"That's it, Aunt Jerusha; it's haunted. Several uncomfortable demons

have taken possession of it and Jill isn't able to exorcise them. It

was a great grief to me at first, and I made a bargain with Jill to

keep still about them, but it is an open secret now and she may tell

you everything."

[Illustration: SHELVES IN THE MIDDLE, CUPBOARDS ABOVE AND BELOW.]

"Very well. I can easily explain the mystery. The mischief began with

the evil spirits of Ignorance and Incompetence. The carpenter who

planned the house knew nothing about our tastes or needs, and the

builder was unable to make a comfortable flight of stairs, safe

chimneys, smooth floors or tight windows. After these two came another

pair, worse than the first--Ostentation and Avarice. They tried to make

a grand display and at the same time a large profit on the job. How

can I exorcise such demons as these except by tearing down the house?"

"Couldn't you sell it, dear? What seem demons to you might appear like

angels of light to some one else," said Aunt Jerusha.

"You are an angel of light to me, Aunt Jerusha," said Jack. "But I

might have known you would stand up for my house."

"Aunt Jerusha, there isn't a closet in the whole establishment," said

Jill, solemnly, knowing that defect to be an architectural sin which

even her aunt's broad charity would fail to cover.

"Oh, Jill! where have you laid your conscience? I can't stay to hear my

house abused. Please show Aunt Jerusha the pantry and the china-closet

and I will flee to the office."

"Why, yes, to be sure you have a very nice buttery and china-cupboard."

"I meant good, generous closets for the chambers. Of course there's a

pantry, but I don't think the arrangement of shelves, drawers and

cupboards is very convenient."

"It seems very liberal."

"Yes, but would you advise me to have the pantry in the new house like

it?"

"Well, no, dear; since you asked me, I wouldn't. It is possible to have

too many conveniences even in a pantry. It is a good plan to have a few

cupboards to keep some things from the dust and others from the light,

but most of our raw materials now-a-days come in tight boxes or cans,

and I find them more handy standing on the shelves than shut up in

drawers. I don't suppose it would be so in your case, dear, but a

drawer sometimes hides very slovenly habits. It is so easy to drop an

untidy thing into a drawer and shove it out of sight. These large

wooden boxes, all built in with their covers and handles, look nice and

handy, but it's hard to clean them out. I would rather have good wide

shelves and light movable tin boxes like those used in the groceries.

You could buy them, I suppose, but I had mine made at the tin-shop to

fit the shelves. I can take them out and wash them any time, and they

never get musty, as wooden boxes will, even with the best of care. But

you mustn't be biased by my old-fashioned notions."

"I think they are very good notions if they are old-fashioned. If we

have cupboards inside the pantry, drawers inside the cupboards, and

boxes and cases inside the drawers, finding the spices is like opening

a nest of. Chinese puzzles. A mechanic would never hide the tools in

his workshop in that way."

"How do you reach the upper shelves?"

"I never reach them, and all that room is wasted. It is worse than

wasted. It is a reservoir for dust and cobwebs."

"Wouldn't it be well, dear, if all the upper part was made into

cupboards for things seldom used?"

"Indeed it would. I think I will have the new pantry made something

like this: low cupboards next to the floor, for things that; need to be

shut up and yet must be handy; on the top of these, which will be not

quite three feet high, a very wide shelf; over this several open

shelves, as high as I can easily reach; and above the shelves, filling

the space to the ceiling, short cupboards entirely around the room for

cracked dishes that are too good to throw away, but are never used: for

ice-cream freezers in the winter, and a great many more things that

belong to the same category--a sort of hospital for disabled or retired

culinary utensils. Now we will look at the china closet, but we shall

need the gas in order to see it in all its glory, and you can tell Jack

it is lovely with a clear conscience."

"I never speak without a clear conscience," said Aunt Jerusha mildly.

CHAPTER XV.

A DANGEROUS RIVAL.

"Dear me," said Aunt Jerusha, as Jill, after displaying the kitchen

pantry, showed her the windowless china closet, elegant with varnished

walnut, plate-glass and silver-plated plumbing, "dear me, this is as

fine as a parlor. It seems a real pity to keep it all out of sight."

"The pity is that it was made so fine. I should not object to polished

walnut in a light room, although cherry, birch or some other

fine-grained, hard, light-colored wood is preferable; but all this

ornamental work, these mouldings, cornices and carved handles are worse

than useless--they are ugly and troublesome. If I can have my own

way--I'm glad Jack isn't here to make comments--I shall have every part

of the new pantries as plain and smooth as a marble slab, with not a

groove or a moulding to hold dust, and never a crack nor a crevice in

which the tiniest spider can hide. The shelves will be thin, light and

strong; some wide and some narrow; a wineglass doesn't need as much

room as a soup tureen; the cupboard doors shall be as plain as doors

can be made, and shall _not_ be hung like these, to swing out against

each other at the constant risk of breaking the glass and of pushing

something from the narrow shelf in front of them. They ought to slide,

one before another, and the front shelf should be wide enough to hold

_lots_ of things when they are handed down from the upper part of the

cupboards."

"I'm sure the little sink must be handy," said Aunt Jerusha, amiably

looking for merits where Jill saw only defects.

"It might be if there was room enough at each side for drainers and for

dishes to stand before and after washing. I don't wonder that Jack's

china is 'nicked' till the edges look like saw teeth; glass and fine

crockery can't be piled up into pyramids even by the most experienced

builders without serious damage to the edges. There ought to be four

times as much space at each side."

"I suppose there wasn't quite room enough."

"There was _always_ room enough. There's enough now outside, and would

have been inside, if the house had been well planned," said Jill rather

sharply.

"These are proper, nice, large drawers."

"They are too nice and too large. Even when they are but half full I

have to tumble their contents all over to find any particular thing,

unless it lies on top. Some drawers ought to be large and some small,

but I don't believe there ever was a man," said Jill vehemently, "who

knew enough to arrange the small comforts and conveniences for

housekeeping. Every day I am exasperated by something which Jack never

so much as noticed. When I explain it he laughs and says it is

fortunate we have so good an opportunity for learning what to avoid,

and all the time I am certain he thinks there will be a great many more

faults in the new house. If there are I shall be sorry it is

fire-proof."

[Illustration: "THE OAKS."]

"Why, Jill, my dear, don't be rash! That doesn't sound like you. You

mustn't set your heart on having things exactly to suit you in this

world. I've lived a great many years, and a good many times I find it

easier to bring my mind to things as they are than it is to make

everything come just to my mind. I've seen plenty of women wear

themselves out for want of things to do with, and I've seen other women

break down from having too many; trying to keep up with all the modern

fashions and conveniences, and to manage their houses with the same

kind of regularity--'system' they call it--that men use in carrying on

a manufacturing business."

"Well, why shouldn't they, Aunt 'Rusha?"

"I'll tell you why, my dear. A business man has a certain, single,

definite thing to do or to make. Every day's work is very much like

that of the day before. He may try to improve gradually, but, in the

main, it is the same thing over and over again. Our home life ought not

to be like that. A man ought not to be merely an engine or a cash-book;

a woman ought to be something more than a dummy or a fashion-plate; our

children should not be like so many spools of thread or suits of

clothes, turned in the same lathe, spun to the same yarn, and cut

according to the same pattern and rule. I'm sure I could never have

done my work and brought up six children without some sort of a

system, or if your uncle had been a bad provider. But I never could

have got on as well as I have if I had given all my mind to keeping

things in order and learning how to use new-fashioned labor-saving

contrivances. There's nothing more honorable for womankind," said Aunt

Jerusha, as she rolled up her knitting and prepared to set out on her

homeward ride, "than housework, but it ain't the chief end of woman,

and unless your house is something more than a workshop or a showcase,

it will always be a good deal less than a home."

Jill hardly needed this parting admonition, but listened to it and to

much more good advice with the respect due to one who, for nearly half

a century, had looked well to the ways of her household, whose helping

hands were always outstretched to the poor and needy, whose children

rose up and called her blessed, and whose husband had never ceased to

praise her. After her departure her niece indulged in a short season of

solemn reflection, striving faithfully to attain to that wisdom which

always knows when to protest against existing circumstances and when to

accept them with equanimity. Ultimately she reached the conclusion

that, while the house that Jack built might indeed be a thoroughly

comfortable home to one who had a contented mind, it was really her

duty in her probationary housekeeping to be as critical as possible.

Among other things the doors came in for a share of her usually amiable

denunciation. She declared they were huge and heavy enough in

appearance for prison cells, yet so loosely put together that their

prolonged existence seemed to be a question of glue. They were swollen

in the damp, warm weather till they refused to _be_ shut, and would

doubtless shrink so much under the influence of furnace heat in the

winter that they would refuse to _stay_ shut. The closet doors swung

against the windows, excluding instead of admitting the light. The

doors of the chambers opened squarely upon the beds, and there seemed

to have been no thought of convenient wall spaces for pictures and

furniture.

[Illustration: OUTSIDE BARRIERS.]

The architect's theory of doors, as expounded in one of his letters,

was simple enough: "Outside doors are barricades; they should be solid

and strong in fact and in appearance. Inner doors, from room to room,

require no special strength; they should turn whichever way gives the

freest passage and throws them most out of the way when they are open.

Seclusion for the inmates is the chief service of chamber doors, and

they should be placed and hung so as _not_ to give a direct glimpse

across the bed or into the room the moment they are set even slightly

ajar. Closet doors are screens simply, and ought to hide the interior

of the closet when they are partially open, as well as when they are

closed. They may be as light as it is possible to make them. In many

houses one-half the doors might wisely be sent to the auction-room and

the proceeds invested in portières, which are often far more suitable

and convenient than solid doors, especially for chamber closets, for

dressing-rooms, or other apartments communicating in suites, and not

infrequently a heavy curtain is an ample barrier between the principal

rooms. It may be well to supplement them, with light sliding doors, to

be used in an emergency, but which being rarely seen, may be

exceedingly simple and inexpensive, having no resemblance to the rest

of the finish in the room. For that matter such conformity is not

required of any of the doors, though it is reckoned by builders as one

of the cardinal points in hard-wood finish that veneered doors must

'match' the finish of the rooms in which they show. This is absurd.

Doors are under no such obligations. They may be of any sort of wood,

metal or fabric. They may be veneered, carved, gilded, ebonized,

painted, stained or 'decorated.' To finish and furnish a room entirely

with one kind of wood, making the wainscot, architraves, cornices,

doors and mantels, the chairs, tables, piano, bookcase, or sideboard,

all of mahogany, oak, or whatever may be chosen--the floors, too,

perhaps, and the picture frames--is strictly orthodox and eminently

respectable; but like the invariable use of 'low tones' in decorating

walls and ceilings, it betrays a sort of helplessness and lack of

courage. Discords in sound, color and form are, indeed, always hateful,

and they are sure to be produced when ignorance or accident strikes the

keys. Yet, on the other hand, neutrality and monotone are desperately

tedious, and it is better to strive and fail than to be hopelessly

commonplace."

[Illustration: INSIDE BARRIERS.]

[Illustration: COMMON UGLINESS.]

[Illustration: SIMPLE GRACE.]

This advice concerned not the doors alone, but referred to other

queries that had been raised as to the interior finish generally.

One evening Jack came home and found Jill "in the dumps," or as near as

she ever came to that unhappy state of mind, the consequence, as it

appeared, of Aunt Melville's zeal in her behalf.

"Why should these plans worry you?" said Jack. "I thought common sense

was your armor and decision your shield against Aunt Melville's erratic

arrows of advice."

"My armor is intact, but, for a moment, I have lowered my shield and it

has cost me an effort to raise it again, I supposed my mind was fixed

beyond the possibility of change, but this is a wonderfully taking

plan. At first I felt that if our lot had not been bought and the

foundation actually begun we would certainly begin anew and have a

house something like these plans. Then it occurred to me that in

building a house that is to be our home as long as we live, perhaps,

it would be the height of absurdity to tie ourselves down to one little

spot on the broad face of this great, beautiful world and live in a

house that will never be satisfactory, just because we happen to have

this bit of land in our possession and have spent upon it a few hundred

dollars."

"Sensible, as usual. What next?"

"Well, this last and best discovery of Aunt Melville's was undoubtedly

made like our own plan to fit a particular site, and it seems beginning

at the wrong end to arrange the house first and then try to find a lot

to suit it."

"I don't see it in that light," said Jack. "I know the architect has

been preaching the importance of adapting the plan to the lot, but if

two thousand dollars are going into the land and eight thousand into

the house, I should say the house is entitled to the first choice."

"Certainly, if it was a city lot, with no character of its own, a mere

rectangular piece of land shut in upon three sides and open at one. But

ours has certain strong points not to be found in any other unoccupied

lot in town. Besides, there are other reasons why it would not answer

for us; but _if_ our lot was right for it, and _if_ we wanted so large

a house, _how_ I should enjoy building it!"

"I don't see anything so very remarkable about the plan," said Jack,

taking up the drawings.

"My dear, short-sighted husband," said Jill with the utmost

impressiveness of tone and manner, "it is a _one-story house_. 'There

shall be no more stairs' sounds almost as delightful as the scriptural

promise of no more sea. And look at the plan itself: The great square

vestibule, or reception-room, with the office at one side--wouldn't

you enjoy that, Jack?--then a few steps higher the big keeping-room,

with a huge fireplace confronting you, and room enough for--anything.

For games, for dancing, for a billiard table, for a grand piano, for a

hammock--or--"

"Say a sewing machine, a spinning-wheel or something useful."

"Anything you like, a studio or a picture gallery, for it is twice as

high as the other rooms, and lighted from the roof. At the right of

this, and with such a great wide door between them that they seem like

two parts of the same room, is the sitting-room, with another great

fireplace in the corner, bay window and a conservatory fronting the

wide entrance to the dining-room, at the farther end of which there is

still another grand fireplace, with a stained-glass window above it.

These three rooms--four, if we count the conservatory--are just as near

perfection as possible. Then see the long line of chambers, closets and

dressing-rooms running around the south and east sides, every one with

a southern window, and all communicating with the corridor that leads

from the keeping-room, yet sufficiently united to form a complete

family suite. The first floor--I mean the _one_ floor--is five or six

feet from the ground, so there can be no dampness in the rooms--and

just think what a cellar! Altogether too much for us."

"Indeed, there isn't. I'd have a bowling alley, a skating rink, a

machine shop, a tennis court, and--a rifle range. Yes, it _is_ a taking

plan, but there are two things that I don't understand. How can you

cover such a big box, and where is the cooking to be done?"

[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR PLAN OF "THE OAKS."]

"The old rule of two negatives applies. Even a one-story house must

have a roof, and the breadth of this makes a roof large enough to hold

not only the kitchen but the servants' room on the same upper level."

"A kitchen up stairs!" exclaimed Jack, for once startled into

solemnity.

"Aunt Melville considers this the crowning glory of the plan. Owing to

this elevation of the cooking range there is no back door, no back

yard, no chance for an uncouth or an unsightly precinct at either side

of the house."

"That would be something worth living for. I think, Jill, we had better

examine these plans a little farther."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

A NEW WAY OF GETTING UP STAIRS AND A NEW MISSIONARY FIELD.

"The question of getting up stairs," said Jack, as they continued the

study of the one-story plan, "is at least an interesting one. It seems

to be accepted as a foregone conclusion that modern dwelling houses,

even in the country, where the cost of the land actually covered by the

house is of no consequence, must be two stories at least above the

basement; but I doubt whether this principle in the evolution of

domestic habitations is well established. Between the aboriginal

wigwam, whose first and only floor is the bare earth itself, and the

'high-basement-four-story-and-French-roof' style, there is somewhere

the happy medium which our blessed posterity--blessed in having had

such wise ancestors--will universally adopt as the fittest survivor of

our uncounted fashions. I fancy it will be much nearer to this

one-story house, with the high basement and big attic, than to the

seven-story mansard with sub-cellar for fuel and furnace. Still the

tendency during the last fifty years has been upward. Our grandfathers

preferred to sleep on the ground floor; _we_ should expect to be

carried off by burglars or malaria if we ventured to close our eyes

within ten feet of the ground. Our city cousins like to be two or

three times as high. Under these circumstances building a one-story

house would be likely to prove a flying-not in the face of Providence,

but, what is reckoned more dangerous and discreditable--flying in the

face of custom. Humility isn't popular in the matter of

house-building."

"I am not afraid of custom, and have no objection to a reasonable

humility," said Jill, "but I never once thought of burglars. If a house

has but one floor I think it should be so for from the ground as to be

practically a 'second' floor. The main point is to have all the family

rooms on one level."

"That is, a 'flat.'"

"Yes, one flat; not a pile of flats one above another, as they are

built in cities, but one large flat raised high enough to be entirely

removed from the moisture of the ground, to give a pleasant sense of

security from outside intrusion and to afford convenient outlooks from

the windows. One or two guest rooms, that are not often used, might be

on a second floor, under the roof, if there was space enough."

"But this plan has the servants' chambers, the kitchen and the store

closets all in the roof. Isn't that rather overdoing the matter?"

"Better in the attic than in the basement. It is light, dry and 'airy.'

There is no danger that the odors of cooking will come down, and as for

the extra trouble, a well-arranged elevator will take supplies from the

basement up twenty feet to the level of the kitchen, store-rooms and

pantries as easily as they could be taken the usual distances

horizontally. In brief, a kitchen above the dining-room is at worst no

more 'inconvenient' than below it. Of course, there must be stairs even

in a one-story house, but they would not be in constant use. Instead of

living edgewise, so to speak, we should be spread out flatwise. We

could climb when we chose, but should not of necessity be forever

climbing. Yes, I like this plan exceedingly, not alone for its one

principal floor, but I have always had a fancy for the 'rotunda'

arrangement--one large central apartment for any and all purposes, out

of which the rooms for more special and private uses should open.

Indeed, I don't see how a very large house can be built in any other

way without leaving a considerable part of the interior as useless for

domestic as Central Africa is for political purposes. With _this_

arrangement the central keeping-room, lighted from above, may be as

large as a circus tent, and all the surrounding cells will be amply

supplied with light and air from the outside walls.

[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.]

[Illustration: NEAR THE TURNING-POINT.]

"According to Aunt Melville's enthusiastic account, the construction of

the house is but little less than marvelous. 'The high walls of the

basement are built of those native, weather-stained and lichen-covered

boulders, the walls above being of a material hitherto unknown to

builders. You will scarcely believe it when I tell you they are nothing

else than the waste rubbish from brickyards, the rejected accumulations

of years--not by any means the unburned, but the overburned, the hard,

flinty, molten, misshapen and highly-colored masses of burned clay

which indeed refused to be consumed, but have been twisted into

shapeless blocks by the fervent heat. Of course, with such

unconventional materials for the main walls it would be a silly

affectation to embellish the exterior of the house with elaborate

mouldings or ornamental wood-work, and the visible details are

therefore plain to the verge of poverty. But as men of great genius can

disregard the trifling formalities of society, so there are no

architectural rules which this house is obliged to respect.'"

[Illustration: A CHOICE OF BALUSTERS.]

"That suits me perfectly," said Jack; "but I am amazed at Aunt

Melville. Never before did she make such a concession even to great

genius. Never before have I felt inclined to agree with her; but the

conviction has grown upon me of late that the new house is in danger of

being too much like other houses. If a fellow is really going in for

reform, I like to have him go the whole figure. What do you say to

beginning anew and building such a house as no mortal ever built

before--something to make everybody wonder what manner of people they

are who live in such a habitation--something to convince our neighbors

that we are no weak-minded time-servers, but are able to be an

architectural as well as domestic law unto ourselves--something to make

them stop and stare--a sort of local Greenwich from which the community

will reckon their longitude--'so many miles from the house that Jill

built'?"

"My dear, did it ever occur to you that you cannot be too thankful for

a wife who is not blown about by every wind of new doctrine? I _do_

like the plan of 'The Oaks' exceedingly, not only for itself, but for

the spirit of it, for its breadth and freedom. It seems to me a

charming illustration of the true gospel of home architecture. There is

no thoughtless imitation of something else that suits another place and

another family. Neither does it appear that the owner tried to make a

vain display for the sake of 'astonishing the natives.' He knew what he

wanted, and built the house to suit his wants, using the simplest, the

cheapest and the most durable materials at hand in the most direct and

unaffected manner. Did you notice in the sketch of the keeping-room

fireplace the little gallery passing across the end of the room above

the entrance to the sitting-room? Probably you thought that was built

for purely ornamental purposes, but it isn't. It is simply the walk

from the kitchen to another part of the attic, which can be most

conveniently reached by this interior bridge. Of course it adds to the

interest and beauty of the room, but it was not made for that purpose,

and, as I understand the matter, it is all the more beautiful because

it was first made to be useful. There is another thing in this

house--the elevator--which, queerly enough, we do not often find in

houses of more aspiring habit, where it would he of even greater value.

It is amazing to me that housekeepers will go on tugging trunks,

coal-hods and heavy merchandise of all kinds up stairways, day after

day and year after year, when a simple mechanical contrivance, moved by

water, or weights and pulleys, would save us from all these heavy

burdens. Think of the bruised knuckles, the trembling limbs that

stagger along with the upper end of a Saratoga 'cottage,' the broken

plastering at the sides, the paper patched with bright new pieces that

look 'almost worse' than the uncovered rents, and the ugly marks of

perspiring fingers."

[Illustration: THE BIG FIREPLACE IN THE KEEPING ROOM.]

[Illustration: ONE WAY TO BEGIN.]

"All of which I have seen and a part of which I have been," said Jack.

"I intended to have a lift in this house, but somehow it was left out."

"Our architect." Jill continued, "must be instructed to arrange not

only an easy staircase, but there must be a paneled wainscot at the

side. We will dispense with elegance in any other quarter, if need be,

in order to have the stairs ample, strong and well protected. I am not

over-anxious to have them ornate, although handsome stairs are very

charming if well placed; like many other beautiful things, they become

incurably ugly when too obtrusive. The architect has sent several

designs of balustrades from which we are to choose, and gives this

advice about the dimensions: 'As you have plenty of room, the staircase

should be four or four and a-half feet wide, so that two people can

easily walk over it abreast, I have arranged to make the steps twelve

inches wide, besides the projection that forms the finish--the

"nosing"--and six inches high; that is, six inches "rise" and twelve

inches "run." Some climbers think this too flat, and perhaps it is in

certain situations; but for homes, for easy, leisurely ascent by

children and old folks. I think it better than a steeper pitch. All

large dwelling-houses, and some small ones, ought to be supplied with

"passenger elevators," at least from the first to the second story.

Those who take the rooms still higher are usually able to make the

ascent in the common way. Such an elevator can undoubtedly be made that

will be safe and economical, especially where there is an ample water

supply.'"

[Illustration: A BROADSIDE OF AN EASY ASCENT.]

"The safety is the most troublesome part of the problem," said Jack;

"and I can think of no way to overcome the danger of walking off the

precipice, when the platform happens to be at the bottom, but by having

the car run up an inclined plane. There would be no more danger of

falling down this than down a common stairway, and the car might be

fixed so it couldn't move up or down faster than a walk or a slow

trot."

"Would you like to experiment in the new house? You may do so--at your

own expense--if you will promise not to spoil the plan. Among the

designs for the stairs there is one that will be of no service to

us--the screen at the foot of the stairs; our 'reception' hall will be

separated from the staircase hall by the chimney and the curtains at

the sides."

"I have an idea," exclaimed Jack, "a truly philanthropic one. You know

we are accumulating a large stock of plans, to say nothing of general

information on architectural subjects, which we cannot possibly use

ourselves, but which ought not to be wasted. Now you know Bessie is

pining for a mission.".

"Bessie has gone home."

"I know, but she will come back if we send for her and tell her that

she and Jim are to be sent out in the express wagon on a benevolent

expedition to the heathens--the uncultured domestic heathens. We can

have some of the architect's letters printed in tract form for them to

distribute, and they can take along these superfluous plans to be

applied where they will be most effective. Take, for instance, this

hall screen, or whatever it may be, with the square staircase behind

it. This would be just the thing for one of those old-fashioned square

houses with the hall running through the middle and the long staircase

splitting the hall in two lengthwise. If Bessie could persuade the

owner of a single one of these old houses to take out the straight and

narrow stairs, move them back, and, by introducing this semblance of a

separation, make a reception hall of the front part, she would feel

that she had not lived in vain. If she could at the same time cause

cashmere shawls and rag carpets to be hung as portières in place of

doors to the front rooms she would be ready for translation."

Jill laughed. "I'm not sure," said she, "but this is a good field for

people of missionary proclivities. Some of these old-fashioned houses

have far more real, artistic excellence than those of the later,

transition periods, and need but slight alterations to be most

satisfactory types of architectural beauty as well as models of comfort

and convenience. Broad, easy stairs, wide doorways and generous

windows, with ample porches and piazzas outside, would transform them

and make them not merely as good as new, but vastly better. Reopening

fireplaces that have been ignominiously bricked up would be another

promising field."

"Oh! I tell you my idea is a capital one. I'll send for Bess this very

day. They shall have Bob and the express wagon a week if they want it.

They shall dispense an esthetic gospel and accumulate ancient

bric-a-brac to their hearts' content. Bessie will be in ecstacies, and

Jim will be in a helpless state of amazement and admiration."

[Illustration: A DIVIDING SCREEN AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS.]

"How perfectly absurd, Jack! I wouldn't allow those children to go off

on such an excursion for all the old houses in America. One would

think you were determined to have an esthetic sister-in-law at all

hazards."

"Never thought of such a thing! But now that you suggest it--"

"I haven't suggested it," said Jill indignantly.

"Well, you put it into my head at all events, and really now it

wouldn't be such a bad idea. Jim is behind the times, artistically

speaking, and needs to be waked up; and as for Bess, she would very

soon learn to be careful how she expressed a longing for the

unattainable, for Jim is a practical fellow, and whatever she wanted he

would go for in a twinkling. Honestly, Jill, it strikes me as a

first-class notion, and I'm glad you suggested it."

"I _didn't_ suggest it, and I think it would be a _dreadful_ thing--I

mean to send them off on another excursion. I am not sure, however, but

we might found an A.B.C.A.M. with the materials and implements in our

possession."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE RIGHT SIDE OF PAINT; A PROTEST AND A PROMISE.

Jack's benevolent ambition to distribute their superfluous plans among

those in need of such aids was strengthened by the receipt of another

roll of drawings, showing designs for the interior work, wainscots,

cornices, architraves, paneled ceilings and such wood finishings as are

commonly found in houses that are built in conventional fashion, with

lathed and plastered walls, trimmed at all corners and openings with

wood more or less elaborately wrought. Of course, it was a large

condescension in the architect to offer such a variety, and contrary to

his avowed determination to decide without appeal all questions of

construction and design, but he appreciated his clients and knew when

to break his own rules and when to insist upon their observance. If

Jill, had required an assortment he would doubtless have suggested that

certain "practical" builders could furnish a full line of ready-made

"artistic" patterns for little more than the cost of the paper on which

they were printed; from these he would have advised her to select her

own designs, as she might have chosen from a medicine chest

sweet-smelling drops or sugar-coated pills of varying hue and

form--the result would doubtless he as satisfactory in one case as in

the other. Since she had not demanded it as an inalienable right he

gave her an opportunity to criticise and select, which she accepted by

no means unwillingly. As a rule, the designs were, in her opinion, too

elaborate and obtrusive. There were too many mouldings, there was too

much carving, and too evident a purpose to provide a finish that should

challenge attention by its extent or elegance. It would require too

much labor to keep it in order, and--it would cost too much. If she

could not have work that was truly artistic, and therefore enduringly

beautiful, whatever changes of fashion might occur, it was her wish to

keep all the essential part of the building and finish modestly in the

background, not attempting to make it ornamental, but relying upon the

furniture for whatever conspicuous ornament or decoration might be

desired. Nothing annoyed her more than an elegantly-finished house

scantily provided with shabby, incongruous and misapplied furniture.

The amiable concession of the architect came near causing a fatal

quarrel, as amiable concessions are apt to do, for he found it almost

impossible to satisfy Jill's taste in the direction of simplicity; he

seemed to feel that he was neglecting his duty if he gave her plain,

narrow bands of wood absolutely devoid of all design beyond a

designation of their width and thickness. Any carpenter's boy could

make such plans. "It would be worse," he wrote, "than prescribing bread

pills and 'herb drink' for a sick man." To which Jill replied in

substance that the needs of the patient are more important than

professional rules.

[Illustration: BITS OF CORNICES.]

Over the first great question, regarding the visible wood work of the

interior, Jack and Jill had held many protracted discussions: should

any of it be painted, or should all the wood be left to show its

natural graining and color? To the argument that unpainted wood is not

only "natural" but strictly genuine and more interesting than paint,

Jack replied that "natural" things are not always beautiful; that

paint, which makes no pretense of being anything but paint, is as

genuine as shellac or varnish, and that if the object is to be

interesting, the bark, the knots, the worm-holes, and, if possible, the

worms themselves should be displayed. "Besides," said he, "if we decide

on hard wood, who shall choose the kinds? There's beech, birch and

maple; cherry, whitewood and ebony; ash and brown ash and white ash and

black ash; ditto oak, drawn and quartered; there's rosewood, redwood,

gopherwood and wormwood; mahogany, laurel, holly and mistletoe; cedar

of Lebanon and pine of Georgia, not to mention chestnut, walnut,

butternut, cocoanut and peanut, all of which are popular and available

woods for finishing modern dwellings. If we choose from this list,

which may be indefinitely extended, the few kinds for which we can find

room in our house, we shall be tormented with regret as long as we both

do live because we didn't choose something else. Now if we paint,

behold how simple a thing it is! We buy a lot of white pine boards, put

them up where they belong and paint them in whatever unnamable hues the

prevailing fashion may chance to dictate. Our boards need not even be

of the best quality; an occasional piece of sound sap, a few hard

knots, or now and then a 'snoodledog'--as they say in Nantucket--would

do no harm. A prudent application of shellac and putty before painting

will make everything right. Then if the fashions change, or if we

should be refined beyond our present tastes and wish to go up higher,

all we should need to lift the house to the same elevated plane

is--another coat of paint. On the other hand, if we had a room finished

in old English oak, growing blacker and blacker every year; in mahogany

or in cheap and mournful black walnut, what could we do if the

imperious mistress of the world should decree light colors? With rare,

pale, faded tints on the walls our strong, bold, heavy hard-wood finish

would be painful in the extreme. We couldn't change the wood and we

couldn't change the fashion."

"If you were not my own husband, Jack, I should say you were dreadfully

obtuse. Concerning _fashions_ in house-building and furnishing I feel

very much as Martin Luther felt about certain, formal religious dogmas.

If we are asked to respect them as a matter of amiable compliance, if

we find them convenient, agreeable and at the same time harmless, then

let us quietly accept them; but, if we are commanded to obey them as

vital, if they are set before us as solemn obligations to be reverenced

as we reverence the everlasting truth, then, for Heaven's sake, let us

tear them in pieces and trample them under our feet, lest we lose our

power to distinguish the substance from the shadow. The moment any

particular style of building, finishing or furnishing becomes a

recognized fashion, that moment I feel inclined to turn against it with

all my might."

"If you were not my own idolized wife, I should say that was 'pure

cussedness.'"

[Illustration: MOULDINGS FAIR TO SEE, BUT HARD TO KEEP CLEAN.]

"On the contrary, it is high moral principle; that is, moral principle

applied to art. It is a simple, outright impossibility for human

beings to have any true perception of art while a shadow of a thought

of fashion remains. It is, indeed, possible that fashion may, for a

moment, follow the straight and narrow road that leads to artistic

excellence, as the fitful breath of a cyclone may, at a certain point

in its giddy whirl, run parallel with the ceaseless sweep of the mighty

trade-winds, but whoever tries to keep constantly in its track is sure

to be hopelessly astray."

"My dear, indignant, despiser of fashion, you know you wouldn't wear a

two-year-old bonnet to church, on a pleasant Sunday morning, for the

price of a pew in the broad aisle."

"Certainly not; that would be both mercenary and irreverent; moreover,

my bonnet has nothing to do with artistic rules. It is not a work of

art or of science, of nature or of grace. It is a conventional signal

by which I announce a friendly disposition toward the follies of my

fellow-creatures--a sort of flag of truce, a badge of my conformity in

little things. I wear it voluntarily and could lay it aside if I

chose."

"Undoubtedly, _if_ you chose. Now, let us resume the original

discussion. I had given one powerful argument in favor of paint when I

was rashly interrupted: here is another--it is much cheaper."

"That would depend," said Jill. "Ash, butternut, cherry and various

other woods cost little, if any more, than the best pine, and the pine

itself is very pretty for chambers."

"Ah, but you forget the labor question. It is one thing to join two

pieces of wood so closely as to leave no visible crack between them,

and quite another to bring them into the same neighborhood, fill the

chasm with putty and hide the whole under a coat of paint. The

difference between these two kinds of joints is the difference between

one stroke and two, between one day's work and five days, between one

thousand dollars and five thousand. My third argument you will surely

appreciate. Paint is more artistic." Here Jack paused to give his

words effect; then proceeded like one walking on stilts. "Pure tones

symphoniously gradated from contralto shadows to the tender brightness

of the upper registers and harmoniously blended with the prevailing

quality--"

[Illustration: FRAGMENTS OF ARCHITRAVES.]

"Oh, Jack! _Don't_ go any farther, you are already beyond your depth.

When you attempt to quote Bessie's sentiments you should have her

letter before you. Perhaps I have a dim perception of the principle

that underlies your thirdly. If so, this room is a pertinent

illustration of it. Instead of all this white paint, if the wood work

had been colored to match the predominant tint in the background of the

paper, or a trifle darker, this being also the general 'tone' of the

carpet, it is easy to see how the coloring of the room would have been

simple and pleasing, instead of glaring and ugly. Yes, your plea for

paint is not without value. I think, however, it would be entirely

possible to stain the unpainted wood to produce any desired symphony,

fugue or discord. It might be unnatural, especially if we wished to

look blue, but it would not conceal the marking and shading of the

grain of the wood which is so much prettier than any moulding or

carving, and vastly easier to keep in order. Your economical arguments

are always worth considering. I think the happy compromise for us will

be to use hard wood in the first story and painted pine in the

chambers, with various combinations and exceptions. The bath-rooms,

halls and dressing-rooms of the second story should of course be

without paint, and we may relieve the solid monotony of the hardwood

finish with occasional fillets or bands of color, painted panels or

any other irregularities we choose to invent. But this is invading the

mighty and troublous realm of 'interior decoration,' from which I had

resolved to keep at a respectful distance until the house is at least

definitely planned in all its details."

[Illustration: A CHOICE OF WAINSCOTS.]

A wise decision, for although what we call in a general way "interior

decoration" is closely allied to essential construction--not

infrequently seems to be a part of it--there is still a sharp though

often unseen line between them that cannot be crossed with impunity.

Artistic construction is at best only second cousin to decoration, and

while we may in building arrange to accommodate a certain style of

furniture or ornament, as Bessie's friend built her parlor to suit the

rug, the result of such contriving is apt to be discouraging if not

disastrous.

"Two things we must surely have," said Jill, "which the architect has

not sent; one, an old fashion, the other, a new one. We must have

'chair rails,' in every room down stairs that has not a solid wainscot,

if I have to make the plans and put them up myself. We must also have

another band of wood higher up entirely around every room in both

stories, to which the pictures can be hung."

"Perhaps the architect will object to this as interfering with his

plans."

"He cannot, for they belong to our side of the house; they are matters

of use, not of design. He may put them where he pleases, within

reasonable limits, and make them of any pattern, with due regard to

cost. He may treat one as part of the dado, the other as a member of

the cornice, if he chooses, but we _must_ have them--they are

indispensable."

"They are also dangerous, because they are fashionable."

"Yes, an illustration of the temporary agreement of fashion and common

sense. But things of real worth do not go out of fashion; fashion goes

out of them; henceforth they live by their own merit and no one

questions their right to be."

"Have you written to Bessie?"

"Written to Bessie? What for?"

"Why, to come and get ready to start on her mission."

"No, indeed; I supposed you had forgotten that absurd notion."

"Not at all absurd. I mentioned it to Jim, and he was delighted.

Offered to go up and escort her down. He said they could go out in a

different direction every day and do a great deal of good in the course

of a week."

"Jack, I am ashamed of you! Don't mention the subject to me again."

"What shall I say to Jim?"

[Illustration: WOOD PANELS FOR WALLS AND CEILINGS, WITH IRREGULARITIES

IN LEATHER, PAINT AND PAPER.]

"You needn't say anything to Jim. Tell him I am going to invite Bessie

to visit us in the new house, and if he is in this part of the world I

will send for him at the same time."

"And that will be a full year, for the house is hardly begun."

"Yes, a full year."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE HOUSE FINISHED AND THE HOME BEGUN.

It was indeed a full year for Jill before Bessie received the promised

invitation. Not merely full as to its complement of days, but full of

new cares, interests and activities. It is needless to say it was also

a happy year. Building a house for a home is a healthful experience, a

liberal education to one who can give personal attention to it; who has

some knowledge of plans with enough imagination to have a fair

conception of what they will be when executed; who is content to

receive a reasonable return for a given outlay, not anxious to get the

best end of every bargain, nor over-fearful of being cheated; who cares

more for home comfort than for a fine display, and whose soul is never

vexed by the comments of Mrs. Grundy, nor tormented by the decrees of

fashion.

The question was raised, whether the house should be built by contract

or by "day's work." The worldly-wise friends advised the former.

Otherwise they affirmed the cost of the house would exceed the

appropriation by fifty, if not a hundred, per cent., since it would be

for the interest of both architect and builders to make the house as

costly and the job as long as possible. And, while it was doubtless

true that "day work" is likely to be better than "job work," still, if

the plans and specifications were clearly drawn and the contract made

as strong as the pains and penalties of the law could make it, the

contractor might be compelled to keep his agreement and furnish

"first-class" work.

Jill's father settled this point at once. "It is true," said he, "that

the plans and specifications should be clearly drawn, that you may see

the end from the beginning, and it will be well to carefully estimate

the cost, lest, having begun to build, you should be unable to finish.

But I am neither willing to hold any man to an agreement, however

legal it may be, that requires him to give me more than I have paid

for, nor, on the other hand, do I wish to pay him more than a fair

value for his work and material. You cannot avoid doing one of these

two things in contracting such work as your house, for it is

impossible to estimate its cost with perfect accuracy, and no

specifications, however binding, can draw a well-defined line between

'first' and 'second'-class work. A general contract may be the least

of a choice of evils in some cases; it is not so in yours. If you know

just what you want, the right mode of securing it is to hire honest,

competent workmen and pay them righteous wages. If, before the work is

completed, you find the cost has been underestimated, stop when your

money is spent. It may be mortifying and inconvenient to live in an

unfinished house; it is far more so to be burdened with debt or an

uneasy conscience. There is another thing to be remembered: We hear

loud lamentations over the dearth of skillful, trusty laborers. There

is no way of promoting intelligent, productive industry--which is

the basis of all prosperity--but by employing artisans in such a way

that the personal skill and fidelity of each one shall have their

legitimate reward. The contract system, as usually practiced, acts in

precisely an opposite direction. Your house must be built 'by the day'

Jill, or I shall recall my gift." _That_ question was settled. The

good and wise man had previously decided as peremptorily an early

query relating to the plans. When it was known that a new house was to

be built, several architects, with more conceit than self-respect,

proposed to offer plans "in open competition"--not to be paid for

unless accepted--concerning which Jill had asked her father's advice.

[Illustration: THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

"What should you think of a physician," said he, "who, on hearing that

you were ill, should hasten to present himself with a prescription and

a bottle of medicine, begging you to read the one, test the other, and,

if they made a favorable impression, give him the job of curing you?

There are such who call themselves physicians; other people call them

quacks, and there is one place for their gratuitous offerings--the

fire. I shall burn any plans that are presented in this way. Choose

your architect at the outset, and give him all possible aid in carrying

out your wishes, but do not employ one of those who must charge a

double price for their actual work in order to work for nothing half

the time. In any other business such a practice would be condemned at

once."

"Isn't it the same thing as offering samples of goods?"

"No, it is offering the goods themselves--the top of the barrel at

that."

Of course this did not apply to the contributions that were prompted by

personal friendship, of which Jill, as we have seen, received her full

share, none of them, excepting the one-story plan, proving in the least

tempting.

As the race of competent, industrious mechanics is not yet extinct,

whatever the croakers may say such were found to build the house, which

was well closed in before winter. The walls and roof were completed and

the plastering dried while the windows could be left open without

danger of freezing, a most important thing, because although mortar may

be kept from freezing by artificial heat, the moisture it contains,

unless expelled from the house, will greatly retard the "seasoning" of

the frame and the walls of the building. After it has all been blown

out of the windows, if the house is kept warm and dry the fine

wood-finishing will "keep its place" best if put up in winter rather

than in summer. For the most carefully seasoned and kiln-dried lumber

will absorb moisture so rapidly in the hot, steaming days of June and

in the damp dog-day weather that no joiner's skill can prevent cracks

from appearing when the dry furnace heat has drawn the moisture from

its pores.

One year is a reasonable length of time for building a common

dwelling-house. Twelve months from the day the workmen appeared to dig

the foundation trenches the last pile of builder's rubbish was taken

away and the new, clean, bright, naked, empty house stood ready for the

first load of furniture. If the social and domestic tastes of Jack and

Jill have been even slightly indicated, it is unnecessary to say that

this first load did not consist of the brightest and best products of

the most fashionable manufacturers. Aunt Melville had sent a few

ornaments and two or three elegant trifles in the way of furniture, a

chair or two in which no one could sit without danger of mutual broken

limbs, and a table that, like many another frail beauty, might enjoy

being supported but could never bear any heavier burden than a

card-basket, and was liable to be upset by the vigorous use of

dust-brush or broom. "They will help to furnish your rooms," said the

generous aunt, "and will give a certain style that cannot be attained

with furniture that is simply useful."

[Illustration: THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

The ornaments that were ornamental and nothing more Jill accepted

gratefully. The furniture that must be protected to preserve its

beauty, and generally avoided lest it should be broken, she returned,

begging her aunt to give it to some one having a larger house.

On one of those perfect days that are so rare, even in June, Bessie

appeared in all the glory of the lilies. To Jill's surprise, her first

remark after the customary effusive greeting was, "How _lovely_ it is

to have a home of your own. I shouldn't care if it was made of slabs

and shaped like a wigwam. Of course, _this_ house is exquisite. I knew

it would be, but it is ten times as large as I should want. It will be

_so_ much work to take care of it."

"I don't expect to take care of it alone."

"I know you don't, but I should want to take care of my own house, if I

had one, every bit of it. Oh, you needn't look so amazed. I know what I

am saying. I have learned to cook, and dust, and sweep, and kindle

fires, and polish, silver, and--and black stoves!"

No wonder Jill was dumb while Bessie went on at a breathless rate.

"And do you know, Jill dear, I wouldn't take this house if you would

give it to me. There! I would a thousand times rather have a little bit

of a cottage, just large enough for--for two people, and everything in

it just as cosy and simple as it could be. Then we--then I could learn

to paint and decorate--I've learned a little already--and embroider and

such things, and slowly, very slowly, you know, I would fill the house

with pretty things that would belong to it and be a part of it, and a

part of me, too, because I made them."

"Wouldn't it be much cheaper and better to hire some skillful artist to

do these things?" said Jill, taking refuge in matter-of-fact.

[Illustration: THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

"If I hired any one of course it would be an artist, but our homes are

not dear to us because they are beautiful, it is because they are

_ours_, because we have worked for them and in them until they are a

part of ourselves. I love artistic things as well as I ever did, but

there are some things that are ten thousand times lovelier."

Before Jill had recovered from her astonishment at Bessie's transformed

sentiments or imagined their cause, who should drive up but Aunt

Jerusha. She and Bessie had never met before, but the mysterious laws

of affinity, that pay no regard to outward circumstances or

expectations, brought them at once into the warmest sympathy. Jill had

provided extremely pretty china for her table, and for Bessie's sake

had brought out certain rare pieces not intended for every-day use. It

was contrary to her rule to make any difference between "every-day" and

"company days." "Nothing is too good for Jack," was the basis of her

argument. The one exception was china. But Bessie was absolutely

indifferent to the frail and costly pottery. She was intent on learning

domestic wisdom from Aunt Jerusha, and insisted upon writing in her

note-book the recipes for everything she ate and recording the rules

for carrying on whatever household matters chanced to be mentioned,

from waxing floors to canning tomatoes. Jack strove to enliven the

conversation by throwing in elaborate remarks upon the true sphere of

women, the uncertainty of matrimonial ventures and the deceitfulness of

mankind in general. Jill meanwhile preserved her equanimity upon all

points relating to her house. She admitted the force of Aunt

Jerusha's suggestion that a portion of the long serving-table in the

kitchen should be movable and a door made from kitchen to china-closet,

to be kept locked, as a rule, but available in an emergency, when one

or both servants were sick or discharged; she appreciated her advice to

form the habit of washing the silver and fine glasses with her own

hands before leaving the table; she was able to repeat her favorite

recipes correctly; she carved gracefully, as a lady ought, and gave due

attention to her guests. Beyond these duties she was in a state of

bewilderment. What had happened to Bessie, and what new mischief Jack

was incubating were puzzles she could neither solve nor dismiss.

[Illustration: THE EAST END OF JILL'S DINING-ROOM.]

By one of those coincidences, not half as rare as they seem, at four

o'clock the same day Aunt and Uncle Melville appeared upon the scene.

They were spending a short time at a summer hotel in the vicinity, and

Jill persuaded them to stay for tea, sending their carriage back for

Cousin George and his wife, who were at the same place. She also

invited her father and mother to improve the opportunity to make a

small family gathering. "I suppose you know Jim is coming over this

evening," said Jack. "Don't you think he had better bring Uncle Harry

along?"

"I _didn't_ know Jim was coming, but he is always welcome, and Uncle

Harry too. Your father and mother, of course, if they are able to come

out this evening."

"Oh, _they_ are coming, anyway," Jack began and stopped suddenly. "That

is, I mean, certainly they will be delighted, if you send for them."

Jill was more puzzled than ever, but they all came.

"Now, you will please consider yourselves a 'board of visitors,'" said

she, as they sat at the table after tea, "authorized to inspect this

institution and report your impressions."

"Remembering that Jill is the warden and I am the prisoner," said Jack.

"But you must conduct us to the cells," said her father, rising, "and

tell us what to admire."

Jill accordingly began at the beginning. She showed them the light

vestibule, with a closet at one side for umbrellas and overshoes, and a

seat at the other; the central hall that would be used as a common

reception-room, and on such occasions as the present, would become a

part of one large apartment--the entire first floor of the main house;

the staircase with the stained-glass windows climbing the side; the

toilet-room from the garden entrance and the elevator reaching from the

basement to the attic. She showed them the family suite of rooms; her

own in the southeast corner, with the dressing-room and adjoining

chamber toward the west, and Jack's room over the front hall, with the

large guest-room above the dining-room. She urged them to count the

closets and notice their ample size; referred with pride to the

servants' rooms, and explained how there was space in the roof for two

chambers and a billiard-room, if they should ever want them. With true

housekeeper's pride she declared the beauties and wonders of the

kitchen arrangements, a theme that had been often rehearsed, and from

the kitchen they descended to the basement, which contained the

well-lighted laundry, the servants' bath-room and store-rooms without

name or number; some warm and sunny, others cool and dark, but all dry

and well ventilated.

Then they returned to the drawing-room to make their reports.

"It's too large," said Bessie.

"It isn't small enough," said Jim.

"The third floor is not the proper place for a billiard-table,"

remarked Uncle Melville, sententiously. "It is too remote for such a

social pastime; too difficult of access; too--too--er--"

"The house looks smaller than it is," said Aunt Melville, "which I

consider a serious defect. It ought to look larger; it should have a

tower, and the front door should be toward the street."

"Your chambers are excellent," said Uncle Harry. "The personality of

human beings should be respected. The chief object of home is to give

to each individual a chance for unfettered development. Every soul is a

genius at times and feels the necessity of isolation. Especially do we

need to be alone in sleep, and to this end every person in a house is

entitled to a separate apartment. I commend the family suite."

"A nobby house," said Cousin George.

"I like our own better," said his wife, _sotto voce_, which was a

worthy sentiment and should have been openly expressed. Fondness for

our own is the chief of domestic virtues.

"Is it paid for?" inquired Jack's father. To which Jack replied:

"It is: and the house that I built is sold to the most stylish people

you ever saw. They paid me more than this cost, but I wouldn't swap

with them for a thousand dollars to boot."

"No; neither would they change with us for two thousand."

Just as the clock struck nine the door-bell rang and the rector and his

wife were announced. Before Jill could realize what was taking place

she found herself an amazed and helpless spectator in her own house,

for Jim and Bessie stood side by side under the curtains leading to the

library, and the rector was reading the solemn marriage service. By way

of calming her excitement Jack found a chance to whisper to Jill,

"They have been engaged six months."

"You unnatural husband! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't know it myself till this afternoon."

There was no time for further explanations, for the good rector was

saying: "I am sure you will agree with me that building and cherishing

a consecrated home is the noblest work we can do on earth. From such

homes spring all public and private excellence, all patriotic virtues,

all noble charities and philanthropies, all worthy service of God and

man. Whether high or low, rich or poor, in all times and in all places,

domestic life, in its purity and strength, is the safeguard of

individuals and the bulwark of nations. And when, in after years,

other solemn sacraments shall be performed beneath this roof, may it

still be found a sacred temple of peace and love!"

Bessie and Jim kept house in two chambers until a cottage of four

rooms, with an attic and wood-shed, was finished, which happened before

cold weather. Her wedding present from Jack was an express wagon full

of obsolete household utensils. She had learned to make the fire in the

kitchen, and nothing was more acceptable than such a load of dry

kindling wood.

The house that Jill built cost ten thousand dollars. Jim's cost less

than one thousand. Bessie declares that the smaller the house the

greater the happiness it contains. She may be right, but Jill denies

it, and it is never safe to draw general conclusions from special

cases.

CHAPTER XIX.

TEN YEARS AFTER.

Jack, Jr., and his sister Bessie, were building block houses on the

piazza. Jack was pretending to read the evening paper, in reality

watching the builders; and Jill was making no pretense of doing

anything else.

"Really Jack, I think Bessie shows more skill in building than her

brother. Her houses look like realities, and they have more grace and

dignity than his."

"Of course. Haven't I always said that women would make the best

architects if they had a fair chance? Didn't you make the plans of this

house? Hasn't it been all our fancy painted and a great deal more?

There isn't a stick nor a stone, a brick nor a shingle that I would

have changed if we were to build it again."

"And haven't I always said that men were more conservative than women?

_I_ would be glad to change everything there is in the house to build

it all over again, and build it differently."

"Oh the inconstancy of women! Even the moon is more constant, for her

changes are only superficial and temporary."

"When I say; 'I have changed my mind,' it is only another way of

saying, 'I am wiser to-day than I was yesterday.'"

"I understand; what a Jacob's ladder of wisdom you must be! All right;

change your mind every day, grow wiser and wiser; I will try to keep

the hem of your garments in sight."

"Have you selected a lot?"

"What for?"

"For a new house."

"Bless you, my dear husband, I wouldn't build another house, still less

live in it, for all the wealth of the treasury vaults. Isn't this our

own? Hasn't it always been perfectly suited to our wants? What upon

earth are you thinking of?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. I never think if I can help it. I have

heard that a man ought always to build two houses, one to learn how,

the second to correct the mistakes of the first. I thought perhaps it

was the same way with women."

"This house was exactly right when it was built, it could not have been

improved, but that was ten years ago, and a great many things have

happened in the last ten years; but, then, a great many more will

happen in the next ten, and ten years hence there will be just as many

things to change in the houses that are built this year as there are

now in those that are of the same age as ours."

"But how would you change this house if it could be done by a magic

wand or by the exercise of faith, and without raising a speck of dust

or upsetting the housekeeping affairs for a single minute?"

"I would make it larger for one thing. Our rooms are too small. The

number of rooms a house contains should depend on the number of people

there are to live in it, including all the children, the guests and the

servants, with a certain allowance for contingencies."

"Depending on the hospitality of the family."

"Yes; and whatever the number of rooms, they should be large enough,

not merely to hold the occupants when the doors are shut, but for

comfortable living and moving about. There is nothing in which all men

and women are more conservative than in the planning of their houses;

there seems to be something hereditary about it, as difficult to change

as a tendency to bald heads and awkward locomotion. Americans are

special sufferers in this respect. The primitive Anglo-American home

was only a step removed from the wigwams of the aboriginal savages, in

size, shape and general accommodations. Even our English ancestors,

from whom we derived some of our domestic notions, were not accustomed

to anything magnificent in the way of dwellings. The climate was

against them, and they were not sufficiently luxurious in their tastes.

Their houses were primarily places for shelter and refuge. In summer

they lived out of doors, and in winter they crept into close quarters

and waited for warm weather. With plenty of land and building materials

to be had for the taking, our colonial grandfathers should have had the

most generous homes in the world."

"Yes; and to judge by some of the old colonial mansions which have

escaped the 'making-over' vandals we have been going backwards in that

respect during the last fifty or a hundred years."

"Yes; and we ought to have been going the other way, for the size of

rooms should increase as the cost of furniture diminishes. Take for

instance, a parlor or sitting room fifteen feet square, which is, I

believe, about the orthodox size for a modern house. Give such a room a

dozen straight-backed and straight-legged chairs ranged along the

sides, a table in the center of the room with a green cover and four

books on it, two or three unhappy-looking family portraits on the

walls, a pair of brass candlesticks on the high, wooden mantel, a pair

of bellows, a shovel and tongs, with, perhaps, in the way of luxury, a

haircloth sofa. Now compare the room furnished in that way, which was

by no means uncommon in the days of our grandfathers with a room of the

same size, in which are stored half a dozen chairs, no two alike, and

some of them as large as small lounges, a center table piled with books

and magazines and photographs, till like a heap of jack straws, it is

impossible to remove one without disturbing the whole pile; a lounge

with a back, a divan or something without a back, an upright piano, two

or three bookcases, several small stools and piles of Turkish cushions

to catch the unwary, huge Japanese vases beside the fireplace, a

leopard skin with a solid head in front of the table, and a sprinkling

of Persian rugs spilt over the floor; a cabinet of bric-a-brac in the

northeast corner, a 'whatnot' with a big jardiniere bearing a

three-foot palm on the top story in the northwest, a carved bracket

with a sheaf of Florida grasses in the southeast, and a tall wooden

clock that won't go in the southwest; a brass tea kettle hanging from a

wrought iron frame beside a fragile stand that carries a half dozen of

still more fragile 'hand-painted' teacups and saucers; lambrequins and

heavy curtains at all the windows and most of the doors, a big

combination gas and electric chandelier suspended from the center of

the ceiling, bedangled with jumping jacks, Christmas cards, straw

ornaments and other artistic 'curious'; one or two small tables

scattered 'promiscous like' about the room; a music stand and a banjo;

with photographs, chromos, oil paintings, water colors and etchings,

from one to three feet square, in gilt, enameled and wooden frames of

all styles and degrees of fitness on the walls of the room,--take a

room furnished in this way or a great deal more so, and compare it

with another of the same actual dimensions furnished in the

old-fashioned way and see which is the larger. The modern furnishing

may be 'cozy,' oppressively cozy when there are half a dozen people

trying to move gracefully around and between it without upsetting or

destroying anything, but what sort of hospitality can we offer our

guests if they must be always afraid of breaking something valuable if

they stir?"

"Why not have a bonfire and liquidate some of this superfluous stock?"

"It is not superfluous; all these things, if they are good add to the

enjoyment of living, if we have room for them and are able to take good

care of them without neglecting weightier matters. Our own rooms are

not large enough. However, if we cannot enlarge them we can build new

ones for special purposes. For one, we must have a children's workroom.

If Jack is going to be an artist, and you know he shows decided talent,

and Bessie an architect, there's no doubt of her having real genius in

that direction, they should have one room immediately, and two by and

by, for their own exclusive use. A room where they could keep all their

books, and tools and toys, and where they could work in their own

spontaneous, untrammeled way."

"You mean a nursery."

"No, I do _not_ mean a nursery, but a workshop, study, gymnasium, call

it anything you please. The floor should be smooth and hard, and the

walls should be wainscoted with smooth, hard wood. There should be

blackboards and shelves at the sides, and the children should be

allowed to drive nails wherever they please. I am not sure but I would

have a sink and a water faucet."

"Not unless the room is in the cellar or has a floor tight enough for a

swimming tank. Well, what next?"

"We must have a hospital."

"For inebriates or the insane?"

"A room similar to the private wards in a hospital. You know our own

and the children's sleeping rooms are very simply furnished, but a sick

room should be still more severe. The children have both had the

measles, thank goodness, and I hope they never will have smallpox,

scarlet fever, or diphtheria, but if they should it would be necessary

to send them away from home or run the risk of their exposing one

another."

"You might as well include every other ill that flesh is heir to. If we

have got to fight germs day and night in order to live, the cleaner and

more open we can keep the battle ground the better. It strikes me that

it might be a good thing to have the whole house sort of clean and

wholesome."

"Of course. But none of us would like to have the living rooms as

absolutely bare of all superfluous furnishing as a hospital ward. We

should not be willing to give up our rugs, take down the curtains,

throw away the cushions and sit in hard wooden chairs."

"No, and I wouldn't like to burn my books, although there is nothing

quite so 'germy' as my musty old books that were made in Italy in

plague times and smell like the 16th century every time they are

opened. So I suppose we must have a hospital for the children to be

sick in, a workshop for them to work in, and what would you say to a

small chapel and penitentiary, with a dungeon or two? While we are

about it, let's have a market and cold storage annex."

"Precisely what I was going to suggest. It would be the easiest thing

in the world to attach a small room to the cellar or the kitchen, where

a low temperature can be kept at all times, either by ice or by the

artificial refrigeration that will soon be distributed and sold in the

same way that gas, water, steam, electric light and power are now

furnished in many cities."

"I never thought of it before, but why shouldn't milk and beer and

other medicinal drinks be distributed in the same way as water and

gas?"

"Please don't interrupt me. These are really serious considerations.

Why, Jack, we haven't begun to guess at the wonderful changes that are

to be made in all our housekeeping affairs, as well as in everything

else by electricity. In a few years we shall find our present cooking

arrangements as much out of date as the old turnspit and tin ovens and

the great wood fires on the hearth. And light! Our houses will be as

light as day all the time, unless we choose darkness in order to sleep

more comfortably."

"Or because our deeds be evil, or for the better accommodation of

burglars. No self-respecting burglar would think of 'burgling' without

a dark lantern."

"And heat; do you remember how something more than twenty-five years

ago a French scientist proposed to supply all the heat needed for human

comfort in cold climates directly from the sun's rays?"

"I can't say that I do remember that particular philosopher, but I have

a notion that the sun was considered a fair sort of furnace a good many

years before the first Frenchman was born."

"Yes, yes; but he was going to gather the sun's heat into such shape

that it would warm our houses in winter, do all the cooking, take the

place of all the steam boilers and furnaces. I never heard that his

theories were reduced to practice, but we have found another source of

light and heat that is already under our control. There is no more

doubt that all the warmth, illumination and mechanical power that we

can use are within our reach, when we have learned how to take

possession of them, than there is of gravitation. It is all waiting at

the door, we have only to clap our hands and the potent spirit is ready

to do our bidding."

"Without money and without price?"

"No, not quite that, there are too many incorporated monopolies in the

way. But it is coming nearer and nearer, and with the unlimited power

of wind and waves and waterfalls, all these things will soon be as

cheap as anything really worth having ought to be."

"Say, Jill, do you suppose we shall live to see all our necessities

supplied, gratis, and have nothing to work for except the luxuries?"

"We have lived long enough to find that for most people in our day and

generation, even for those who think they have to work very hard 'just

to get a living,' their most serious toil is to provide, what might be

called, not the 'bare' necessities of life, but the well-dressed

necessities. But it is time for those children to be in bed."

CHAPTER XX.

A DOUBLE CONCLUSION.

"Now Jill," this was half an hour later, the children were asleep and

the gas was lighted, "let us by way of amusement draw plans of a castle

in Spain. Let us forget all the houses that ever were built and fancy

ourselves, not Adam and Eve, with the responsibility of setting the

housekeeping pace for the rest of the human family nor Robinson Crusoe,

whose domestic arrangements were somewhat handicapped, but a wise pair

of semi-Bourbons, at the end of the 19th century, who forget nothing

old but are willing to learn and adopt anything new, provided it is

good."

"All right; go ahead."

"In the first place our castle will not be destructible by fire or

water. All the walls will be of masonry and the floor beams will be of

steel. There will be nothing to invite moth or rust."

"Nor burglars; not so much as a silver spoon or a candlestick."

"I have always been sorry that the roof of this house was not

fireproof, but I suppose it would have cost too much, though the

architect said it might have been made like the floors if we would

consent to have it flat."

"Moral: if you want a roof of the mountainous variety you must either

pay for it or run the risk of being burned out on top. But what do

castles in Spain care for the cost? We can have fireproof roofs in

miniature copy of Alpine peaks or we can use them for billiard tables

and croquet grounds."

"Really," Jill continued, "there is no good reason for steep roofs.

Snow is more troublesome on the ground around the house than on top of

it, if it will stay there, and a very slight slope will carry off the

rain. I fancy steep roofs must have been invented when builders used

such clumsy materials for covering that they were obliged to lay them

on a steep pitch in order to keep out the water. Shingles of course

last longer the steeper the roof."

"If that's the case they ought to last forever on the second story

walls of our house, where they are straight up and down. When you come

to think of it, high roofs must be built now-a-days mainly for show,

incidentally they cover the house. First beautiful, then useful. How

large will it be?"

"What, the roof?"

"No, the whole thing; how many rooms will it have?"

"That will depend on the size of the family. Not less than ten nor more

than forty. Ten rooms will answer for two people, and more than forty

complicates the housekeeping."

"Do you count closets?"

"Oh, no. Closets and dressing rooms, storerooms, bath rooms, cupboards

and things of that sort, are mere adjuncts. They are to the real rooms

what the pockets are to a suit of clothes."

"Excellent. I'm glad we haven't got to count the closet or the expense.

Probably ten rooms are not too many for two young people, but a pair of

childless octogenarians ought to get along with eight or nine; the

other way you are all right, only I would say four hundred. While we

are about it, let's have a comfortable, good sized, 'roomy' house. But

how do you propose to put even forty rooms with their various pockets

under one roof and give them all plenty of sunlight and fresh air? Will

you pile them up one above another or set them in a row on the ground?

In either case it would need a trolly car and a telephone to connect

the two ends of the line."

"It mustn't be more than two stories high, and I'm not sure but one

would be better."

"That means twenty rooms on each floor. The rooms will average twenty

feet long, and that will make the entire length of our castle four or

five hundred feet. Won't it look like an institution or a row of

tenements if it is strung out in a line?"

"It will not be."

"Cut up into wings and things?"

"No, it will be in the form of a hollow square. There may be a wing or

two on one side or another, and wherever a projecting bay or oriel will

add to the comfort or charm of the interior we shall have one, but its

general form will be a great square with an open court in the center."

"Oh, I see. An imitation Pompeian, or Florentine palace."

"No, nothing of the kind. Not an imitation of anything. It will be a

simple, straightforward, common-sense, American home, with room for a

good-sized family, several rooms for extra occasions, and some that

will not be finished at all but held in reserve for future

contingencies. It sometimes costs no more to enclose a certain space in

building than to leave it outside, and there is the same satisfaction

in knowing we have space to spare inside the house that there is in

owning the land that joins us even when we don't expect to sell or use

it."

"What shall we do with the big hole in the center? It will be too small

for golf or tennis, and too big for a conservatory. We might keep

hens."

"It will not be too large for a garden, with fountains for hot weather

and flowers for cold. It will be its own excuse for being, for it will

give light and air to all the rooms, and if it has a glass roof the

problem of comfortable living in cold weather will be solved. There

will always be the temperate zone at one side of the house,--that is

inside the court,--however high the drifts may be piled outside. Of

course the entire building will be warmed in winter and cooled in

summer by spicy breezes driven by electric fans, and we shall only have

to decide what temperature we prefer on different days of the week, set

the gauge, and there will be no more watching of the thermometer, the

registers, the weather reports or the wood pile."

"But I thought it was wrong to live in a river of warm air. Uncle John

compares that to taking a perpetual warm bath."

"It is wrong; but, my dear Jack, life is a succession of compromises,

especially domestic life, and considering the practical difficulties in

the way of open hickory fires in all the forty or more rooms, we must

be content with the artificially warmed air for every day use and

consider radiated heat from wood fires, coal grates, or sunshine, as

luxuries."

"Certainly; it would be a pity to make all luxuries impossible just

because we happen to own a castle in Spain. Aren't you afraid our court

will be dreadfully hot in summer, shut in by four brick walls?"

"By no means; it will be particularly cool. If we like we can have a

great awning to draw over it in the hottest weather, and wide halls

will allow a perfect circulation of air throughout the whole structure.

In addition to this, on the highest part of the roof there will be a

space fitted for an outdoor sitting room, sheltered when necessary by

awnings and screens, but most delightful on hot summer evenings."

"Oh, yes, I see. A sort of copy of the old Egyptian houses."

"No, not a sort of a copy of anything, but a simple application of

common sense. In the evening when there is a breeze from any direction,

the highest part of the house will be the coolest."

"I thought it was to be a two-story house. How can one part be higher

than the rest?"

"I didn't say it was to be all of the same height. Some rooms will be

much higher than others because they will be larger. If a room is to be

of agreeable proportions, the height must be determined by the size. It

may be best to make the north side three stories high and the south

only one; that would give more sunlight on the north wall of the court

and make the average two stories."

"Nothing like keeping up the average. But aren't forty rooms with all

the closets and storerooms, and stairways and halls, and bays and

oriels and dungeons going to make a large house for one family? Can't

we work the same idea on a smaller scale?"

"Of course, but that is not too large for a comfortable home for a

family of moderate size. Count your fingers and try it. To begin at

that end of the establishment, we want a scullery, a kitchen, and a

servants' dining room; we want a breakfast room, and a large dining

room for the family, and the dining room, by the way, should be one of

the largest rooms in the house, say twenty-one or two feet by thirty

six or forty; we want a parlor, a drawing room, a library, a

billiard room and a picture gallery; a music room and ball room, these

being, of course, in one, but as large as two ordinary rooms; then we

want a nursery, a workroom for the children, a sick room and a sewing

room, an office and a smoking room, and one or two extra sitting or

reception rooms. Each member of the family should have a private

sitting room and bedroom, with dressing room and bath for each suite.

That, you see, would just about suit a family of ten people without

counting the servants."

[Illustration: A CASTLE IN SPAIN.]

"Have you made any calculation Jill, dear, as to how many people there

are at present in the United States who could manage to scrape along

with thirty-nine rooms instead of forty?"

"Why should I? This is a castle in Spain. We have plenty of money,

plenty of room, plenty of time. Our only anxiety is lest there should

be a lack of brains to make good use of our room and time and money."

"And what shall we build it of, jasper, sapphire and chalcedony?"

"No, burned clay and granite, steel, copper and glass. It shall be

defiant of fire and flood; it shall neither burn up nor rot down."

"One thing more, Jill, when we come to make our wills to which one of

the children shall we bequeath the castle?"

Before Jill could answer the door was hurriedly opened and Bessie

appeared upon the threshold.

"I've just run away from Jim," she began rapidly. "We haven't had a

family quarrel exactly, but we've argued it over and over, and we come

out just as far apart as ever. Finally I told him I would leave it to

you."

"I haven't any idea what it is all about, but did Jim agree to that?"

"I didn't give him a chance to differ. He always agrees to everything

Jill says about building houses But don't interrupt me. The baby may

wake up at any minute and then Jim will be helpless. The truth is he is

dissatisfied with our home."

"Jim, dissatisfied; impossible!"

"Yes, he thinks it's too small."

"He wants more servants, I suppose; several additional children, a lot

more poor relations, and all the various items that go to make up a

well-ordered household."

"No, no; it is the house that is too small."

"Excuse me, you said the home. The house is a very different affair."

"You remember," Bessie continued, "that when it was built ten years ago

Jim thought it was not large enough. Now he is determined to sell it

and build a new one. There are five good rooms besides the closets, and

as there is nobody but Jim and me and the four children and one

servant, we have all the room we need. We have always been perfectly

comfortable, and I can't bear the thought of selling our home."

Here Bessie began to show symptoms of dissolution, but swallowing her

emotion she continued, "If we could build on a room or two as we need

them I wouldn't mind it. But if you advise us to sell this house for

the sake of having another, I'll"--

"We shan't advise any such thing," said Jack, "but it's perfectly

natural for Jim to think you ought to have a larger, more modern

house."

"But I don't want a more modern house," Bessie protested, "if there is

any created thing that I despise it is a 'modern' house, made up of bay

windows and crooked turrets, and shingled balconies, and peaked roofs,

and grotesque little fandangoes of wood and copper and terra cotta,

that have no more dignity or repose, or beauty or homelike appearance,

than a crazy quilt or a Chinese puzzle. They are simply outrageous,

abominable. I would sooner have the children brought up in a reform

school or a house of correction."

"How would you like a colonial house?"

Bessie's indignation had spent itself, and she resumed her ordinary,

but sometimes misleading manner.

"Isn't it a pity we were not all born a hundred years ago, then we

might have had colonial houses. But why should I want to live in an

uncomfortable old curiosity shop when I like my house just as it is?

Our trouble is that Jim wants the house twice as large as it is now and

I want only one more room."

"Bessie," said Jack, in his most fatherly manner, "I am surprised that

two sensible people like you and Jim should fall into such a

distressing controversy over nothing, absolutely nothing. You are

already in perfect accord. Jim says the house is only half large

enough. You say you want one more room. The house is now just

thirty-three feet long and thirty-three feet wide; add a new room

thirty-three feet square; you will have the one extra room, and Jim

will have the house doubled in size. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," said Jill; "It is exactly what I should have suggested if you

had given me a chance. Do you remember the charming room in the old

Florentine palace, where we spent the winter, and how we enjoyed it,

and finally measured it for the benefit of some other Americans who

intended to build a new house as soon as they got home? That was just

thirty-three feet square and eighteen feet high. There was a grand

piano in one corner, in another a group of chairs with bookcases, in

another sofas and chairs and tables scattered about, so that in effect

it was equal to several small rooms. Indeed one of our party described

it in a home letter as a magnificent apartment one hundred feet each

way. It would accommodate several callers, with their different groups

of friends, and it was of course a capital place for music and dancing.

In your new room you will have one corner for the children and another

for yourselves. The Dorcas society can meet at one side while your

little Jack and his friends are playing games at the other. It won't be

many years before Bessie will claim a large section, including one of

the bay windows, for her own use."

"I think I hear the baby crying. Thank you, I'll talk it over with Jim.

Good night."

"Do you think they will do it?" Jack inquired.

"Of course they will; it is by far the most sensible thing. As a family

they are always together and always will be, and one large room will

suit them better than several small ones. Perhaps it will be the best

thing for us, until we can build our castle in Spain. It certainly will

not cost as much as making over and enlarging the rooms we have."

"That is true, and it is my impression that the wisest way to enlarge

an old house is to nail up the windows, seal up the doors and go ahead

with the additions without taking out the nails or breaking the seals

till it is all done; that would save time, money and patience."

"Yes, and more than that," said Jill, "it would preserve the charm of

the old house which grows stronger every year until the loss of the

familiar rooms and their hallowed associations seems like parting with

a dear old friend."

End of Project Gutenberg's The House that Jill Built, by E. C. Gardner