n always like fine houses and
fine furniture,--and I wanted to please you, but I hated it from the
start; and we'd always thought the same about everything, and to have
this big pile of brick and mortar comin' between us at our time of
life--"

At this point words failed him. He was not in the habit of analyzing and
describing his own feelings, but Sarah's eyes met his, and a look of
perfect understanding passed between husband and wife. They had been
living a divided life, but now they were one.

"It was my fault," said Sarah. "I ought to have stopped you in the
beginning; but I knew you were trying to please me, and I didn't want to
seem ungrateful--"

"Yes, honey, yes," interrupted David, "I know just how it was, and it
was my fault, not yours. I ought to have asked you what you wanted,
instead of takin' things for granted. Yes, if it's anybody's fault,
it's mine. But what's the use in blamin' anybody? My doctrine is that
when a thing _has_ happened, instead of blamin' ourselves or anybody
else, we just ought to conclude that it _had_ to happen, and then make
the best of it. This house is built; it's ours; we're in it; we don't
like it; and now what are we going to do about it?"

Sarah's face clouded at once. She and David were of one mind, but things
were not "all right", for still the burden of unaccustomed wealth and
luxury weighed upon her, and David's question brought her face to face
with the old troubles.

"Oh! I don't know," she said wearily. "If we just hadn't left our little
cottage!"

"It was that architect fellow's fault, my buildin' this house," said
David ruefully. "He was a young man just startin' out in the world, and
I thought I'd give him a helpin' hand. And then it didn't look right for
people with the income we've got to live in a four-room cottage in
Millville."

"I don't care how it looked," said Sarah fretfully, "we were in our
right place there, and we're out of place here. When we lived in
Millville, I'd get up in the morning, and I knew just exactly what I'd
have to do, and I knew I could do whatever I had to do. But now--" She
made a gesture of unutterable despair--"Why, I hate to open my eyes, I
hate to get up, I hate to think there's another day before me, for I'm
certain there'll be things to do that I never did before, and don't know
how to do and don't want to do, even if I knew how. People come to see
me and they talk about things I never heard of, and ask me to do things
I