d lend a hand in freeing some heavy bit of
mahogany from its crate or wrappings.

The public opinion, thus advantageously formed, was for once unanimous.
The house overflowed with worthless and unbeautiful junk. To Little
Arcady this was a grievous disappointment. It had expected elegance, for
Clem had been wont to enlarge upon the splendors of his former home.
When it was finally known that the long-vaunted furnishings were coming,
the town had prepared to be dazzled by sets of black walnut, ornate with
gilt lines, by patent rockers done in plush, by fashionable sofas, gay
with upholstery of flowered ingrain, by bedroom sets of ash, stencilled
adroitly with pink-and-blue flowers, or set with veneered panels of
burl; by writing-desks of maple and music-stands of cherry with many
spindles and frettings, by sideboards of finest new oak with brass
handles and mirrors in the backs.

The town had anticipated, in short, up to its own high and difficult
standards. And along had come a ruck of stuff that was dark and dingy
and old-fashioned; awkward articles with a vast dull expanse of
mahogany, ending in clumsy claw feet; spindle-legged tables inlaid with
white wood; old-fashioned mirrors in scarred gilt frames;
awkward-looking highboys and the plainest of sofas and lounges. The
chief sideboard boasted not the tiniest bit of brass; even the handles
were of cheap glass, and Clem had set candle-sticks upon it that were
nothing but pewter.

Where Little Arcady had looked for the best Brussels carpets, there came
only dull-colored rugs of a most aged and depressing lack of gayety. As
for silver, we knew the worst when Aunt Delia McCormick declared, "They
haven't even a swinging ice-pitcher--nothing but thin battered old stuff
that was made in the year one!"

Aunt Delia had quite the newest and most fashionable furniture in town;
her parlor was a feast of color for any eye, and her fine hardwood
sideboard alone had cost twenty-two dollars, so she spoke as one having
authority.

By the time that Clem's ancient treasures were all unpacked, Little
Arcady felt a genuine if patronizing sympathy for his mistress. If
_that_ were the boasted elegance of the ante-bellum South, then
Tradition had reported falsely. No plush rockers of the newest patent;
no chenille curtains; no art chromos; no hat-racks, not even an
imitation bronze mantle clock guarded by its mailed warrior. Such clocks
as there were left only honest distress in the mi