a wreath of flowers on
its glass door, has attained the dignity of age, and earned a right to
its place on the crowded mantelpiece by ticking out the years for these
same generations. There are patchwork cushions and others embroidered
with worsted and beads, on the sofa and in the great horse-hair-covered
armchair, and the two or three hospitable-looking chairs with rockers.
Curious shells, and wax flowers under a glass case, adorn a carved
wooden bracket; and there are family portraits, enlarged in crayons
from old photographs, hanging on the quaintly-papered wall. Between two
windows stands a "secretary bookcase," with a propped-up shelf spread
with writing materials and files of paper. In the middle of the room is
a round table with a homemade fancy-work cover, scarcely showing under
its great bowl of mixed country flowers, and its neat piles of books
and magazines. As I went in, the sun blinds were bowed for the summer
heat, and the room was filled with a cool, sea-green light.

Suddenly I thought of Mrs. Ess Kay's magnificent palace in New York,
with its fountain court and splendid drawing rooms. I saw her "little
cottage" at Newport, and the other "cottages" and castles I had grown
accustomed to there; but somehow the startling contrast between these
pictures and this only made me more content with my present
surroundings.

"What a nice room!" I exclaimed to the girls, pausing for a glance
around.

They looked surprised.

"Do you think so?" asked Patty. "We were afraid maybe you wouldn't. The
things you're used to must be a good deal handsomer. Everything's so
old here."

"I love old things," said I. "Our house at home is very old, and I
wouldn't have anything changed for worlds, even if it were to be made
better."

"Why, that's kind of the way _I_ feel, too!" exclaimed Patty, giving my
waist a sympathetic squeeze. "I _like_ this living-room. But Ide
doesn't admire it a little bit."

"If I was Mis' Trowbridge I'd always sit in the parlour," said Ide,
"instead of keeping it shut up, except for best, just because Mr.
Trowbridge's ma did before her. It's a _real_ pretty room. There's a
Brussels carpet with roses on the floor, and a handsome suite of red
velvet furniture, and a piano, and a marble table. Patty practises her
music there, but aside from that none of us see the room, only to sweep
and dust, till Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the relations come, or
when Mis' Trowbridge has company to tea in