It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent’s carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed four hundred dollars.

“Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage,” said Sophronia; “the very name is enchanting.”

The house itself did not support Sophronia’s impression.  It stood very near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without passing through two others, for the house had no hall.  The woodwork would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors, in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in Sunday-school books.  The agent said it had once been Washington’s headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.

“A Perfect Snuggery” did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation forcibly suggested a chicken coop.

“Charming Swiss Cottage” seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which objectionable matter had not been removed.  “The House in the Woods” was approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.

“Silver Lake!” exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had penciled from the agent’s descriptive list. “That, I am sure, will suit us.  Don’t you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at Villa Valley?”

I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination.  But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature’s most impressible children.  The “lake” was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise—­or, perhaps, of warning.

“Take me away?” exclaimed Sophronia, “It was a dream—­a fateful dream.”

“New Cottage, with all modern improvements,” seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.

“I could never be happy in that house, Pierre,” said she, with emphasis; “it looks to be entirely new.”

“’Tis, ma’am,” declared the agent; “the last coat of paint hasn’t been on a month.”

“So I divined,” replied Sophronia.  “And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster—­no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls—­no tender romances have been woven under its eaves—­no wistful yearnings—­no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life—­no—­”

“I declare!” exclaimed the agent; “excuse me for interrupting, ma’am, but I believe I’ve got the very house you’re looking for.  How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall—­”