“I suppose the nearest way is to go out the back door.”
“What’s the use of a front door if we do not use it?” said her husband. So saying, he opened the front door and led her out into the brilliantly lighted avenue in the upper town.
Mrs. Arburton was perplexed. She took her husband’s arm and walked on for a few steps in silence. Then she stopped and looked back at the house. It was the colonial villa of her dream. Was it a dream? She wanted to ask questions, but wisely said nothing. The young couple spent the evening in calling, and then returned to their home.
Early the next morning Mrs. Arburton drew up the curtains of her room and looked out. There, far below, were the river and the lower town. It was not a dream.
Then for a week nothing in particular happened. Mrs. Arburton was entirely happy in her charming colonial villa. Her mother called and admired everything.
“I suppose next week you will bury yourselves in the lower town. Of course your other house cannot be equal to this lovely place.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Why, my child, you told me it was a plain three-story affair. You said you stayed there that first night.”
“Did I? I must have been dreaming.”
The next morning young Mrs. Arburton began to wonder if her mind had given way. She was awakened by the hoarse boom of the lumber yard whistle. She drew up her curtain and pulled it down, again quickly. The street was full of teams. She pinched her arm. She looked at the mantel clock. No; she was awake. Being a wise woman, she said nothing, and after breakfast she bade her husband good-by at the back door.