you. And now what will you wear in your
button-hole--a gardenia, or some violets? Ruth will be down in a minute,
and you must look your prettiest."

But if the frog pond, damp porch and old-fashioned garden had come as a
surprise, what shall I say of the rest of Miss Felicia's house which I
am now about to inspect under Peter's guidance.

"Here, come along," he cried, slipping his arm through mine. "You have
had enough of the garden, for between you and me, my dear Major"--here
he looked askance at Miss Felicia--"I think it an admirable place in
which to take cold, and that's why--" and he passed his hand over
his scalp--"I always insist on wearing my hat when I walk here. Mere
question of imagination, perhaps, but old fellows like you and me should
take no chances--" and he laughed heartily.

"This room was my father's," continued Peter. "The bookcases have still
some of the volumes he loved; he liked the low ceiling and the big
fireplace, and always wrote here--it was his library, really. There
opens the old drawing-room and next to it is Felicia's den, where she
concocts most of her deviltry, and the dining-room beyond--and that's
all there is on this floor, except the kitchen, which you'll hear from
later."

And as Peter rattled on, telling me the history of this and that piece
of old furniture, or portrait, or queer clock, my eyes were absorbing
the air of cosey comfort that permeated every corner of the several
rooms. Everything had the air of being used. In the library the chairs
were of leather, stretched into saggy folds by many tired backs; the
wide, high fender fronting the hearth, though polished so that you could
see your face in it, showed the marks of many a drying shoe, while on
the bricks framing the fireplace could still be seen the scratchings of
countless matches.

The drawing-room, too--although, as in all houses of its class and
period, a thing of gilt frames, high mirrors and stiff furniture--was
softened by heaps of cushions, low stools and soothing arm-chairs,
while Miss Felicia's own particular room was so veritable a symphony
in chintz, white paint and old mahogany, with cubby-holes crammed
with knickknacks, its walls hung with rare etchings; pots of flowers
everywhere and the shelves and mantels crowded with photographs of
princes, ambassadors, grand dukes, grand ladies, flossy-headed children,
chubby-cheeked babies (all souvenirs of her varied and busy life), that
it was some minutes b