in America, is moving in the same
social circle with Philip, visiting the same people,--his house is the
twin of the one Philip has been furnishing, and how shall he, with a few
hundred dollars, make his rooms even presentable beside those which
Philip has fitted up elegantly and three thousand?

Now for the economy of beauty. Our friend must make his prayer to the
Graces,--for, if they cannot save him, nobody can. One thing John has to
begin with, that rare gift to man, a wife with the magic cestus of
Venus,--not around her waist, but, if such a thing could be, in her
finger-ends. All that she touches falls at once into harmony and
proportion. Her eye for color and form is intuitive: let her arrange a
garret, with nothing but boxes, barrels, and cast-off furniture in it,
and ten to one she makes it seem the most attractive place in the house.
It is a veritable "gift of good faerie," this tact of beautifying and
arranging, that some women have,--and, on the present occasion, it has a
real material value, that can be estimated in dollars and cents. Come
with us and you can see the pair taking their survey of the yet
unfurnished parlors, as busy and happy as a couple of blue-birds picking
up the first sticks and straws for their nest.

"There are two sunny windows to begin with," says the good fairy, with
an appreciative glance. "That insures flowers all winter."

"Yes," says John; "I never would look at a house without a good sunny
exposure. Sunshine is the best ornament of a house, and worth an extra
thousand a year.

"Now for our wall-paper," says she. "Have you looked at wall-papers,
John?"

"Yes; we shall get very pretty ones for thirty-seven cents a roll; all
you want of a paper, you know, is to make a ground-tint to throw out
your pictures and other matters, and to reflect a pleasant tone of
light."

"Well, John, you know Uncle James says that a stone-color is the
best,--but I can't bear those cold blue grays."

"Nor I," says John. "If we must have gray, let it at least be a gray
suffused with gold or rose-color, such as you see at evening in the
clouds."

"So I think," responds she; "but better, I should like a paper with a
tone of buff,--something that produces warm yellowish reflections, and
will almost make you think the sun is shining in cold gray weather; and
then there is nothing that lights up so cheerfully in the evening. In
short, John, I think the color of a _zafferano_ rose will be just about