utlines of the house
and its verdant ornaments.

But the cellar was obdurate. It was pumped dry several times, but no
pump could reach the inequalities in its floor, and in August there came
a crowd of mosquitoes from the water in these small holes. They covered
the ceilings and walls, they sat in every chair, they sang
accompaniments to all of Sophronia's songs, they breakfasted, dined, and
supped with us and upon us. Sophronia began to resemble a person in the
first stages of varioloid, yet that incomparable woman would sit between
sunset and dusk, looking, through nearly closed eyes, at the walls and
ceiling, and would remark:

"Pierre, when you look at the walls in this way, the mosquitoes give
them the effect of being papered with some of that exquisite new
Japanese wall-paper, with its quaint spots; don't you think so?"

Finally September came, and with it the equinoctial storm. We lay in bed
one night, the wind howling about us, and Sophronia rhapsodising,
through the medium of Longfellow's lines, about

"The storm-wind of the Equinox,"

when we heard a terrific crash, and then the sound of a falling body
which shook the whole house. Sophronia clasped me wildly and began to
pray; but I speedily disengaged myself, lighted a candle, and sought the
cause of our disturbance. I found it upon the hall-floor: it was the
front-door and its entire casing, both of which, with considerable
plaster, lathing, and rotten wood, had been torn from its place by the
fury of the storm.

In the morning I sought a printer, with a small but strong manuscript
which I had spent the small hours of the night in preparing. It bore
this title, "The House I Live In." The printer gave me the proof the
same day, and I showed it to the owner of the house the same evening,
remarking that I should mail a copy to every resident of Villa Valley,
and have one deposited in every Post Office box in New York City. The
owner offered to cancel my lease if I would give up my unkind intention,
and I consented. Then we hired a new cottage (_not_ from the agent with
the liquid blue eyes), and, before accepting it, I examined it as if it
were to be my residence to all eternity. Yet when all our household
goods were removed, and Sophronia and I took our final departure, the
gentle mistress of my home turned regretfully, burst into tears, and
sobbed:

"Oh, Pierre! in spite of everything, it _is_ a love of a cottage."

THE BLEIGHTON RIVALS.