We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia announced that her heart was set upon keeping house. My heart sank within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married life is, that when Sophronia’s heart is set upon anything, the protests I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my own consciousness.  Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still lower.  Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings.  I delight in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety.  But when any of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous, absent-minded, and uncompanionable.  What, then, would be my fate, after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were within twenty miles of New York.  But Sophronia had decided that it was to be—­and I,

  “Mine not to make reply;
  Mine not to reason why;
  Mine but to do or die.”

By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the full measure of the fate I feared.  Sophronia has a highly imaginative nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers.  So when I bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia’s interest was excited in exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves.  Communipaw she pronounced execrable.  Ewenville reminded her of a dreadful psalm tune.  Paterson recalled the vulgar question, “Who struck Billy Patterson?” Yonkers sounded Dutch.  Morristown had a plebeian air.  Rutherford Park—­well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the scene in Mrs. Somebody’s novel.  Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned name.  Villa Valley—­

“Stop!” exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore her diamond engagement ring; “that is the place, Pierre. (I was christened Peter, but Miss Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our home will be at Villa Valley.  How melodious—­how absolutely enchanting it sounds.  There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don’t you know?”

I did not previously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly assented.  By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa Valley property.  This agent, when visited by me early in the morning, abundantly confirmed Sophronia’s intuition regarding brooks and lakes, by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day, with a letter to the agent’s resident partner.