The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture, pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile.  Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the agent.

“Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at Villa Valley.  I should like to see them.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” replied the agent, promptly; “I’ll drive you past them as you go to the train.”

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed.  I was moved to interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, “Isn’t the house damp?” “Any mosquitoes?” “Is the water good and plentiful?” “Does the cellar extend under the whole house?” But the coldly practical nature of these queries affected Sophronia’s spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of pure affection, I forebore.  Then the agent invited us into his carriage again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

“Two stations?” I inquired.

“Yes,” said he; “and one’s as near to your house as the other.”

“Your house,” whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my not heavily covered ribs—­“your house!  Oh, Pierre! does not the dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?”

“I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia’s mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose.  That Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I learned by the sound of a decided sniff.  Looking about us, I saw a large paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

“Smell the paper-mash boiling?” asked the agent.  “Peculiar, isn’t it?  Very healthy, though, they say.”

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us.  Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the shore of which was a rolling-mill.

“Here’s the lake,” said the agent; “Dellwild Lake, they call it.  And here’s the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road.”

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn.  Her thoughtfulness lasted but a moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose and whispered:  “Dellwild!  Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod’t you thig so?”

During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture stores, and bric-a-brac shops.  The agent was very kind; he sent a boy to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any of our goods.  Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to