"'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—"
"Exquisite—charming—enchanting—paradisaical—divine!" murmured Sophronia.
"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.
This latter bit of information aroused my strongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once.
The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitæs, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:
"My ideal!"
Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:
"Enough! We take it!"