and sodden, and the grasshoppers across the road were all dead.

We did not admit that we were dissatisfied. In fact, we said so often
that we would not go back to the city to live that no one could possibly
suspect our even considering such a thing.

However, we went in that direction one morning when we set out for a car
ride, and as we passed the new apartment houses of Washington Heights we
found ourselves regarding them with something of the old-time interest.
Of course there was nothing personal in this interest. It was purely
professional, so to speak, and we assured each other repeatedly that
even the best apartment (we had prospered somewhat in the world's goods
by this time and we no longer spoke of "flats")--that even the best
"apartment", then, was only an apartment after all, which is true, when
you come to think of it.

Still, there certainly were attractive new houses, and among them
appeared to be some of a different pattern from any in our "collection."
One in particular attracted us, and a blockade of cars ahead just then
gave us time to observe it more closely.

There were ornamental iron gates at the front entrance, and there was a
spot of shells and pebbles next the pavement--almost a touch of
seashore, and altogether different from the cheerless welcome of most
apartment houses. Then, of course, the street car passing right by the
door would be convenient----

The blockade ahead showed no sign of opening that we could see. By
silent but common consent we rose and left the car. Past the little
plot of sea beach, through the fancy iron gates, up to the scarcely
finished, daintily decorated, latest improved apartment we went,
conducted by a dignified, newly-uniformed colored janitor, who quoted
prices and inducements.

I looked at the Little Woman--she looked at me. Each saw that the other
was thinking of the long, hard walk from the station on dark, wet
nights, the dead grasshoppers, and the gray, gloomy fields. We were both
silent all the way home, remembering the iron gates, the clean janitor,
the spot of shells, and a beautiful palm that stood in the vestibule. We
were both silent and we were thinking, but we did not move until nearly
a week later.

VII.

_Owed to the Moving Man._

WRITTEN TO GET EVEN.

He pledged his solemn word for ten,
And lo, he cometh not till noon--
So ready his excuses then,
We wonder why he came so soon.
He whistles while our goods and