out of the frosty air, are wrapped in a golden mist. The light
streams through the windows in rays of pure gold, and trickles down the
walls in little golden currents. It is an enchanting little villa. The
steep gables covered with variegated slate, the thin fluted columns of
the verandas, the diminutive marble steps, the broad bow-windows with
their transparent plate-glass, look more like a fairy picture than a
reality. The trim shrubbery, the airy little statues, and even the white
palings, so frail and fanciful in their construction, are charmingly
appropriate.

It is an enchanting little room. The icy air is warmed by the bright
carpet and glowing curtains, and the trickling currents of golden light
on the walls are mellowed by the blazing sea-coals. It is a merry little
fire, an ardent, earnest, _home_ fire, that shoots out its whimsical
little flames as if it meant to burn one to a cinder, and flutters and
murmurs to itself and scatters down the white feathery ashes in a very
ecstasy of impetuous glee. The green porcelain tiles on the hearth, the
oval-shaped chairs, the wonderful tables, and the little easy-chair, are
all flushed up, and seem quite enlivened at its sportive tricks. The
silver sewing-bird, with its glittering little garnet eyes, is peering
curiously down at the painted fish-geranium on the teapot; and the
geranium, sweltering by the fire, seems almost wilted with the heat.
The teapot pants and struggles under its steaming contents, and looks
appealingly at the great china cup on the table; and now a lump of
sparkling sugar is dropped into its shiny recesses, and the fragrant
odor of that gentlest soother of troubled thoughts pervades the room.

How shall I describe the mistress of this fairy resting-place, as she
sits in the softened light of this golden winter evening, with the
trickling golden currents and the quivering firelight playing on her
dress, and the last rays of the sunshine melting into golden threads in
her hair? How can I picture the look of girlish innocence on her face,
the artless grace of her manner, her delicate feminine ways, and the
dainty arrangement of her toilet? How can I tell of the irresistible
charm that pervades every article about her, from the little French boot
resting on the rug, to the ruffle that circles her white throat? The
balmy morning of her young life has passed. The brown calico frock, and
the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, have been put away
f