e treasures worth taking.

I had little difficulty in finding Squire Evan's house. It was _the_
house of the village,--a true, model, New England house,--a square,
roomy, old-fashioned mansion, which stood on a hillside under a group of
great, breezy old elms, whose wide, wind-swung arms arched over it like
a leafy firmament. Under this bower the substantial white house, with
all its window-blinds closed, with its neat white fences all tight and
trim, stood in its faultless green turfy yard, a perfect Pharisee among
houses. It looked like a house all finished, done, completed, labelled,
and set on a shelf for preservation; but, as is usual with this kind of
edifice in our dear New England, it had not the slightest appearance of
being lived in, not a door or window open, not a wink or blink of life:
the only suspicion of human habitation was the thin, pale-blue smoke
from the kitchen-chimney.

And now for the people in the house.

In making a New England visit in winter, was it ever your fortune to be
put to sleep in the glacial spare-chamber, that had been kept from time
immemorial as a refrigerator for guests,--that room which no ray of
daily sunshine and daily living ever warms, whose blinds are closed the
whole year round, whose fireplace knows only the complimentary blaze
which is kindled a few moments before bed-time in an atmosphere where
you can see your breath? Do you remember the process of getting warm in
a bed of most faultless material, with linen sheets and pillow-cases,
slippery and cold as ice? You did get warm at last, but you warmed your
bed by giving out all the heat of your own body.

Such are some families where you visit. They are of the very best
quality, like your sheets, but so cold that it takes all the vitality
you have to get them warmed up to the talking-point. You think, the
first hour after your arrival, that they must have heard some report to
your disadvantage, or that you misunderstood your letter of invitation,
or that you came on the wrong day; but no, you find in due course that
you _were_ invited, you were expected, and they were doing for you the
best they know how, and treating you as they suppose a guest ought to be
treated.

If you are a warm-hearted, jovial fellow, and go on feeling your way
discreetly, you gradually thaw quite a little place round yourself in
the domestic circle, till, by the time you are ready to leave, you
really begin to think it is agreeable to stay, a