“Well,” said I.  “I will see Sinclair to-morrow.  And if his house is in the market, Jennie, we we will move there as soon as the spring fairly opens.”

It was in the market.  He was anxious to be rid of it.  I hired it for the year, together with the furniture, at $800,—­and he agreed that if I bought it in the Fall the half year rent should go on the purchase money.  I did not pay him any rent.  I did not move into the city when the snow came.  The diplomate had her own way as she always does.  We live in the country; and I—­I am very glad of it.  I can harness Katie on a pinch.  I am not afraid of the cow.  I am not skilful with the hoe, but I am as proud of my flower garden as any of my neighbors.  And as to the relative advantages of city and country, I am quite of the opinion of Harry.

“Harry,” said his grandfather the other day, “don’t you want to go back to the city and live?”

“No!” said Harry, with the utmost expression of scorn on his face.

“Why not, Harry?”

“It smells so.”

CHAPTER III.

We join the Church.

“I have bought the house, Jennie,” said I.

“Thank you,” said Jennie.  She said it softly, but her eyes said it more plainly than her voice.  I had hesitated a little before I finally closed the purchase.  But Jennie’s look and her soft “Thank you” made me sure I had been right.

Since the baby has come we have converted the chamber over the library into an upstairs sitting-room.  I found her there before the open fire, on my return from New York.  The baby was sleeping in her arms; and she was gently rocking him, pressed close to her bosom.

“I wish you would have a nurse for the baby, Jennie,” said I.  “I don’t like to see you tied to her so.”

“You wouldn’t take baby from me would you, John?” said she appealingly, nestling the precious bundle closer to her heart than before, as if in apprehension.  No I wouldn’t.  I was obliged to confess that, to myself if not to her.

“John,” said Jennie, “Mrs Goodsole has been here this afternoon.  She wants to know if we won’t take our letters to this church the next communion.  It is the first of September.”

“Well?” said I, for Jennie had stopped.

“She says that if we are going to make Wheathedge our home she hopes we can find a pleasant home in the church here.  I told her I could not tell, we had only hired the house for the summer and might leave in the fall.  But if you have bought it, John, and I am, oh! so glad you have and thank you so much”—­one hand left the baby gently, and was laid on my arm with the softest possible pressure by way of emphasizing the thanks again,—­“perhaps we ought to consider it.”

“I have no notion of joining this church,” said I.  “It’s in debt, and always behind hand.  I am told they owe a hundred dollars to their minister now.”