shall be wasted on guess-work or in
experiments. From turret to foundation-stone, the house will be a
living, breathing, organic thing. If the weather prophet will declare
what the average temperature of the winter is to be, we can tell to a
hodful how much coal will maintain a summer heat throughout the
establishment. You may be sure it will not be more than you now use in
keeping two rooms uncomfortably hot and in baking the family pies.
There will be no lathing, except occasionally on the ceilings; even
this will not be necessary. You may make a holocaust of the contents
of any room in the house, and, if the doors, finish, etc., happen to
be of iron, as they may be, no one in the house will suspect your
bonfire, until the heap of charcoal and ashes is found. Dampness and
decay, unsavory odors and impure air, chilly bedrooms and cold floors,
will be unknown. The ears in the walls will be stopped, there will be
no settlement from shrinking timbers, no jelly-like trembling of the
whole fabric when the master puts his foot down. Finally, the dear old
house will be just as sound and just as lovely when the future John
brings home his bride as when his grandsire built it. And it won't
cost a cent more than the weak, unstable things we're raising by the
thousand.

The coming house will surely be a brick one, but before it comes there
will be plenty of work for the carpenters, and I shall not be at all
surprised if you finally decide to build of wood.

LETTER XVI.

From Mrs. John.

DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE.

MR. ARCHITECT: Dear Sir,--Yesterday afternoon Sister Jane and I went
out after May-flowers. We didn't find any, but on our way home met the
schoolmaster, a friend of Jane's, who knew where they grew and offered
himself as a guide. I was too tired to walk any farther, so they went
off without me. Coming into the house, I was taken all aback by the
sight of John lying on my best lounge, his muddy boots on his feet,
his hat on the floor, and your last letter crumpled savagely in his
hand. I was vexed, thankful, and--frightened.

I've taught the baby, who is only twenty-nine months old, to hang up
his little cap, and not to climb into the chairs with his shoes on,
but I can't make a model husband of John. He is as good as gold, but
will leave his hat on the floor, his coat on the nearest chair, and
never keeps himself or any of his things in order in the house. He
says it's born with him; comes from a long line of