"She must not sit there," said Euphemia. "There's a window-pane out.
Can't you cover up your head?"

"I shall not be able to breathe if I do; but I suppose that's no
matter," I replied.

The reading continued.

"Ha, ha! Lord Mar mont thun der ed thou too shalt suf fer all that this
poor--"

I sprang out of bed.

Euphemia thought I was going for my pistol, and she gave one bound and
stuck her head out of the door.

"Pomona, fly!" she cried.

"Yes, sma'am," said Pomona; and she got up and flew--not very fast, I
imagine. Where she flew to I don't know, but she took the lamp with her,
and I could hear distant syllables of agony and blood, until the boarder
came home and Pomona went to bed.

I think that this made an impression upon Euphemia, for, although she
did not speak to me upon the subject (or any other) that night, the next
time I heard Pomona reading, the words ran somewhat thus:

"The as ton ish ing che ap ness of land is ac count ed for by the want
of home mar kets, of good ro ads and che ap me ans of trans por ta ti on
in ma ny sec ti ons of the State."



CHAPTER IV. TREATING OF A NOVEL STYLE OF BURGLAR.


I have spoken of my pistol. During the early part of our residence at
Rudder Grange I never thought of such a thing as owning a pistol.

But it was different now. I kept a Colt's revolver loaded in the bureau
drawer in our bedroom.

The cause of this change was burglars. Not that any of these unpleasant
persons had visited us, but we much feared they would. Several houses in
the vicinity had been entered during the past month, and we could never
tell when our turn would come.

To be sure, our boarder suggested that if we were to anchor out a little
further at night, no burglar would risk catching his death of cold by
swimming out to us; but Euphemia having replied that it would be rather
difficult to move a canal-boat every night without paddle-wheels, or
sails, or mules, especially if it were aground, this plan was considered
to be effectually disposed of.

So we made up our minds that we must fasten up everything very securely,
and I bought a pistol and two burglar-alarms. One of these I affixed to
the most exposed window, and the other to the door which opened on the
deck. These alarms were very simple affairs, but they were good enough.
When they were properly attached to a window or door, and it was opened,
a little gong sounded like a violently deranged clock, striking all the
hours of the day at once.

The window did not trouble us much, but it was rather irksome to have
to make the attachment to the door every night and to take it off every
morning. However, as Euphemia said, it was better to take a little
trouble than to have the house full of burglars, which was true enough.

We made all the necessary arrangements in case burglars should make an
inroad upon us. At the first sound of the alarm, Euphemia and the girl
were to lie flat on the floor or get under their beds. Then the boarder
and I were to stand up, back to back, each with pistol in hand, and fire
away, revolving on a common centre the while. In this way, by aiming
horizontally at about four feet from the floor, we could rake the
premises, and run no risk of shooting each other or the women of the
family.

To be sure, there were some slight objections to this plan. The
boarder's room was at some distance from ours, and he would probably not
hear the alarm, and the burglars might not be willing to wait while
I went forward and roused him up, and brought him to our part of the
house. But this was a minor difficulty. I had no doubt but that, if it
should be necessary, I could manage to get our boarder into position in
plenty of time.

It was not very long before there was an opportunity of testing the
plan.

About twelve o'clock one night one of the alarms (that on the kitchen
window) went off with a whirr and a wild succession of clangs. For a
moment I thought the morning train had arrived, and then I woke up.
Euphemia was already under the bed.

I hurried on a few clothes, and then I tried to find the bureau in the
dark. This was not easy, as I lost my bearings entirely. But I found it
at last, got the top drawer open and took out my pistol. Then I slipped
out of the room, hurried up the stairs, opened the door (setting off the
alarm there, by the way), and ran along the deck (there was a cold night
wind), and hastily descended the steep steps that led into the boarder's
room. The door that was at the bottom of the steps was not fastened,
and, as I opened it, a little stray moonlight illumed the room. I
hastily stepped to the bed and shook the boarder by the shoulder. He
kept HIS pistol under his pillow.

In an instant he was on his feet, his hand grasped my throat, and
the cold muzzle of his Derringer pistol was at my forehead. It was an
awfully big muzzle, like the mouth of a bottle.

I don't know when I lived so long as during the first minute that he
held me thus.

"Rascal!" he said. "Do as much as breathe, and I'll pull the trigger."

I didn't breathe.

I had an accident insurance on my life. Would it hold good in a case
like this? Or would Euphemia have to go back to her father?

He pushed me back into the little patch of moonlight.

"Oh! is it you?" he said, relaxing his grasp. "What do you want? A
mustard plaster?"

He had a package of patent plasters in his room. You took one and dipped
it in hot water, and it was all ready.

"No," said I, gasping a little. "Burglars."

"Oh!" he said, and he put down his pistol and put on his clothes.

"Come along," he said, and away we went over the deck.

When we reached the stairs all was dark and quiet below.

It was a matter of hesitancy as to going down.

I started to go down first, but the boarder held me back.

"Let me go down," he said.

"No," said I, "my wife is there."

"That's the very reason you should not go," he said. "She is safe enough
yet, and they would fire only at a man. It would be a bad job for her if
you were killed. I'll go down."

So he went down, slowly and cautiously, his pistol in one hand, and his
life in the other, as it were.

When he reached the bottom of the steps I changed my mind. I could not
remain above while the burglar and Euphemia were below, so I followed.

The boarder was standing in the middle of the dining-room, into which
the stairs led. I could not see him, but I put my hand against him as I
was feeling my way across the floor.

I whispered to him:

"Shall we put our backs together and revolve and fire?"

"No," he whispered back, "not now; he may be on a shelf by this time, or
under a table. Let's look him up."

I confess that I was not very anxious to look him up, but I followed the
boarder, as he slowly made his way toward the kitchen door. As we opened
the door we instinctively stopped.

The window was open, and by the light of the moon that shone in, we saw
the rascal standing on a chair, leaning out of the window, evidently
just ready to escape. Fortunately, we were unheard.

"Let's pull him in," whispered the boarder.

"No," I whispered in reply. "We don't want him in. Let's hoist him out."

"All right," returned the boarder.

We laid our pistols on the floor, and softly approached the window.
Being barefooted, out steps were noiseless.

"Hoist when I count three," breathed the boarder into my ear.

We reached the chair. Each of us took hold of two of its legs.

"One--two--three!" said the boarder, and together we gave a tremendous
lift and shot the wretch out of the window.

The tide was high, and there was a good deal of water around the boat.
We heard a rousing splash outside.

Now there was no need of silence.

"Shall we run on deck and shoot him as he swims?" I cried.

"No," said the boarder, "we'll get the boat-hook, and jab him if he
tries to climb up."

We rushed on deck. I seized the boat-hook and looked over the side. But
I saw no one.

"He's gone to the bottom!" I exclaimed.

"He didn't go very far then," said the boarder, "for it's not more than
two feet deep there."

Just then our attention was attracted by a voice from the shore.

"Will you please let down the gang-plank?" We looked ashore, and there
stood Pomona, dripping from every pore.

We spoke no words, but lowered the gangplank.

She came aboard.

"Good night!" said the boarder, and he went to bed.

"Pomona!" said I, "what have you been doing?"

"I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop! the chair bounced, and out
I went."

"You shouldn't do that," I said, sternly.

"Some day you'll be drowned. Take off your wet things and go to bed."

"Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean," said she, as she went down-stairs.

When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia still
under the bed.

"Is it all right?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered. "There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of the
window."

"Did you get her a plaster?" asked Euphemia, drowsily.

"No, she did not need one. She's all right now. Were you worried about
me, dear?"

"No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under the
bed."

In one minute she was asleep.

The boarder and I did not make this matter a subject of conversation
afterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways,
and made her take several Dover's powders the next day.

An important fact in domestic economy was discovered about this time by
Euphemia and myself. Perhaps we were not the first to discover it, but
we certainly did find it out,--and this fact was, that housekeeping
costs money. At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures--it
was no trouble at all to count up our receipts--and every week the
result was more unsatisfactory.

"If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has to
be taken along all the time, and which gets bigger and bigger like a
snow-ball, I think we would find the accounts more satisfactory," said
Euphemia.

This was on a Saturday night. We always got our pencils and paper and
money at the end of the week.

"Yes," said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned, "but
it would be all well enough if we could take that snow-ball to the fire
and melt it down."

"But there never is any fire where there are snow-balls," said Euphemia.

"No," said I, "and that's just the trouble."

It was on the following Thursday, when I came home in the evening, that
Euphemia met me with a glowing face. It rather surprised me to see her
look so happy, for she had been very quiet and preoccupied for the first
part of the week. So much so, indeed, that I had thought of ordering
smaller roasts for a week or two, and taking her to a Thomas Concert
with the money saved. But this evening she looked as if she did not need
Thomas's orchestra.

"What makes you so bright, my dear?" said I, when I had greeted her.
"Has anything jolly happened?"

"No," said she; "nothing yet, but I am going to make a fire to melt
snow-balls."

Of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it, but she
would not tell me. It was a plan that she intended to keep to herself
until she saw how it worked. I did not press her, because she had so few
secrets, and I did not hear anything about this plan until it had been
carried out.

Her scheme was as follows: After thinking over our financial condition
and puzzling her brain to find out some way of bettering it, she
had come to the conclusion that she would make some money by her own
exertions, to help defray our household expenses. She never had made any
money, but that was no reason why she should not begin. It was too bad
that I should have to toil and toil and not make nearly enough money
after all. So she would go to work and earn something with her own
hands.

She had heard of an establishment in the city, where ladies of limited
means, or transiently impecunious, could, in a very quiet and private
way, get sewing to do. They could thus provide for their needs without
any one but the officers of the institution knowing anything about it.

So Euphemia went to this place, and she got some work. It was not a very
large bundle, but it was larger than she had been accustomed to carry,
and, what was perfectly dreadful, it was wrapped up in a newspaper!
When Euphemia told me the story, she said that this was too much for her
courage. She could not go on the cars, and perhaps meet people belonging
to our church, with a newspaper bundle under her arm.

But her genius for expedients saved her from this humiliation. She had
to purchase some sewing-cotton, and some other little things, and when
she had bought them, she handed her bundle to the woman behind the
counter, and asked her if she would not be so good as to have that
wrapped up with the other things. It was a good deal to ask, she knew,
and the woman smiled, for the articles she had bought would not make a
package as large as her hand. However, her request was complied with,
and she took away a very decent package, with the card of the store
stamped on the outside. I suppose that there are not more than half a
dozen people in this country who would refuse Euphemia anything that she
would be willing to ask for.

So she took the work home, and she labored faithfully at it for about
a week, She did not suppose it would take her so long; but she was not
used to such very plain sewing, and was much afraid that she would not
do it neatly enough. Besides this, she could only work on it in the
daytime--when I was away--and was, of course, interrupted a great
deal by her ordinary household duties, and the necessity of a careful
oversight of Pomona's somewhat erratic methods of doing her work.

But at last she finished the job and took it into the city. She did not
want to spend any more money on the trip than was absolutely necessary,
and so was very glad to find that she had a remnant of pocket-money
sufficient to pay her fare both ways.

When she reached the city, she walked up to the place where her work was
to be delivered, and found it much farther when she went on foot than it
had seemed to her riding in the street cars. She handed over her bundle
to the proper person, and, as it was soon examined and approved, she
received her pay therefor.

It amounted to sixty cents. She had made no bargain, but she was a
little astonished. However, she said nothing, but left the place without
asking for any more work. In fact she forgot all about it. She had an
idea that everything was all wrong, and that idea engrossed her mind
entirely. There was no mistake about the sum paid, for the lady clerk
had referred to the printed table of prices when she calculated the
amount due. But something was wrong, and, at the moment, Euphemia could
not tell what it was. She left the place, and started to walk back to
the ferry. But she was so tired and weak, and hungry--it was now an hour
or two past her regular luncheon time--that she thought she should faint
if she did not go somewhere and get some refreshments.

So, like a sensible little woman as she was, she went into a restaurant.
She sat down at a table, and a waiter came to her to see what she would
have. She was not accustomed to eating-houses, and perhaps this was
the first time that she had ever visited one alone. What she wanted
was something simple. So she ordered a cup of tea and some rolls, and a
piece of chicken. The meal was a very good one, and Euphemia enjoyed it.
When she had finished, she went up to the counter to settle. Her bill
was sixty cents. She paid the money that she had just received, and
walked down to the ferry--all in a daze, she said. When she got home she
thought it over, and then she cried.

After a while she dried her eyes, and when I came home she told me all
about it.

"I give it up," she said. "I don't believe I can help you any."

Poor little thing! I took her in my arms and comforted her, and before
bedtime I had convinced her that she was fully able to help me better
than any one else on earth, and that without puzzling her brains about
business, or wearing herself out by sewing for pay.

So we went on in our old way, and by keeping our attention on our weekly
balance, we prevented it from growing very rapidly.

We fell back on our philosophy (it was all the capital we had), and
became as calm and contented as circumstances allowed.



CHAPTER V. POMONA PRODUCES A PARTIAL REVOLUTION IN RUDDER GRANGE.


Euphemia began to take a great deal of comfort in her girl. Every
evening she had some new instance to relate of Pomona's inventive
abilities and aptness in adapting herself to the peculiarities of our
method of housekeeping.

"Only to think!" said she, one afternoon, "Pomona has just done another
VERY smart thing. You know what a trouble it has always been for us
to carry all our waste water upstairs, and throw it over the bulwarks.
Well, she has remedied all that. She has cut a nice little low window
in the side of the kitchen, and has made a shutter of the piece she cut
out, with leather hinges to it, and now she can just open this window,
throw the water out, shut it again, and there it is! I tell you she's
smart."

"Yes; there is no doubt of that," I said; "but I think that there is
danger of her taking more interest in such extraordinary and novel
duties than in the regular work of the house."

"Now, don't discourage the girl, my dear," she said, "for she is of the
greatest use to me, and I don't want you to be throwing cold water about
like some people."

"Not even if I throw it out of Pomona's little door, I suppose."

"No. Don't throw it at all. Encourage people. What would the world be
if everybody chilled our aspirations and extraordinary efforts? Like
Fulton's steamboat."

"All right," I said; "I'll not discourage her."

It was now getting late in the season. It was quite too cool to sit out
on deck in the evening, and our garden began to look desolate.

Our boarder had wheeled up a lot of fresh earth, and had prepared a
large bed, in which he had planted turnips. They made an excellent fall
crop, he assured us.

From being simply cool it began to be rainy, and the weather grew
decidedly unpleasant. But our boarder bade us take courage. This was
probably the "equinoctial," and when it was over there would be a
delightful Indian summer, and the turnips would grow nicely.

This sounded very well, but the wind blew up cold at night, and there
was a great deal of unpleasant rain.

One night it blew what Pomona called a "whirlicane," and we went to
bed very early to keep warm. We heard our boarder on deck in the garden
after we were in bed, and Euphemia said she could not imagine what he
was about, unless he was anchoring his turnips to keep them from blowing
away.

During the night I had a dream. I thought I was a boy again, and was
trying to stand upon my head, a feat for which I had been famous. But
instead of throwing myself forward on my hands, and then raising my
heels backward over my head, in the orthodox manner, I was on my back,
and trying to get on my head from that position. I awoke suddenly, and
found that the footboard of the bedstead was much higher than our heads.
We were lying on a very much inclined plane, with our heads downward.
I roused Euphemia, and we both got out of bed, when, at almost the same
moment, we slipped down the floor into ever so much water.

Euphemia was scarcely awake, and she fell down gurgling. It was dark,
but I heard her fall, and I jumped over the bedstead to her assistance.
I had scarcely raised her up, when I heard a pounding at the front door
or main-hatchway, and our boarder shouted:

"Get up! Come out of that! Open the door! The old boat's turning over!"

My heart fell within me, but I clutched Euphemia. I said no word, and
she simply screamed. I dragged her over the floor, sometimes in the
water and sometimes out of it. I got the dining-room door open and set
her on the stairs. They were in a topsy-turvy condition, but they were
dry. I found a lantern which hung on a nail, with a match-box under
it, and I struck a light. Then I scrambled back and brought her some
clothes.

All this time the boarder was yelling and pounding at the door. When
Euphemia was ready I opened the door and took her out.

"You go dress yourself;" said the boarder. "I'll hold her here until you
come back."

I left her and found my clothes (which, chair and all, had tumbled
against the foot of the bed and so had not gone into the water), and
soon reappeared on deck. The wind was blowing strongly, but it did not
now seem to be very cold. The deck reminded me of the gang-plank of a
Harlem steamboat at low tide. It was inclined at an angle of more than
forty-five degrees, I am sure. There was light enough for us to see
about us, but the scene and all the dreadful circumstances made me feel
the most intense desire to wake up and find it all a dream. There was no
doubt, however, about the boarder being wide awake.

"Now then," said he, "take hold of her on that side and we'll help her
over here. You scramble down on that side; it's all dry just there. The
boat's turned over toward the water, and I'll lower her down to you.
I'll let a rope over the sides. You can hold on to that as you go down."

I got over the bulwarks and let myself down to the ground. Then the
boarder got Euphemia up and slipped her over the side, holding to her
hands, and letting her gently down until I could reach her. She said
never a word, but screamed at times. I carried her a little way up the
shore and set her down. I wanted to take her up to a house near by,
where we bought our milk, but she declined to go until we had saved
Pomona.

So I went back to the boat, having carefully wrapped up Euphemia, to
endeavor to save the girl. I found that the boarder had so arranged
the gang-plank that it was possible, without a very great exercise of
agility, to pass from the shore to the boat. When I first saw him,
on reaching the shelving deck, he was staggering up the stairs with a
dining-room chair and a large framed engraving of Raphael's Dante--an
ugly picture, but full of true feeling; at least so Euphemia always
declared, though I am not quite sure that I know what she meant.

"Where is Pomona?" I said, endeavoring to stand on the hill-side of the
deck.

"I don't know," said he, "but we must get the things out. The tide's
rising and the wind's getting up. The boat will go over before we know
it."

"But we must find the girl," I said. "She can't be left to drown."

"I don't think it would matter much," said he, getting over the side
of the boat with his awkward load. "She would be of about as much use
drowned as any other way. If it hadn't been for that hole she cut in the
side of the boat, this would never have happened."

"You don't think it was that!" I said, holding the picture and the chair
while he let himself down to the gang-plank.

"Yes, it was," he replied. "The tide's very high, and the water got over
that hole and rushed in. The water and the wind will finish this old
craft before very long."

And then he took his load from me and dashed down the gang-plank. I went
below to look for Pomona. The lantern still hung on the nail, and I took
it down and went into the kitchen. There was Pomona, dressed, and with
her hat on, quietly packing some things in a basket.

"Come, hurry out of this," I cried. "Don't you know that this
house--this boat, I mean, is a wreck?"

"Yes, sma'am--sir, I mean--I know it, and I suppose we shall soon be at
the mercy of the waves."

"Well, then, go as quickly as you can. What are you putting in that
basket?"

"Food," she said. "We may need it."

I took her by the shoulder and hurried her on deck, over the bulwark,
down the gang-plank, and so on to the place where I had left Euphemia.

I found the dear girl there, quiet and collected, all up in a little
bunch, to shield herself from the wind. I wasted no time, but hurried
the two women over to the house of our milk-merchant. There, with some
difficulty, I roused the good woman, and after seeing Euphemia and
Pomona safely in the house, I left them to tell the tale, and ran back
to the boat.

The boarder was working like a Trojan. He had already a pile of our
furniture on the beach.

I set about helping him, and for an hour we labored at this hasty and
toilsome moving. It was indeed a toilsome business. The floors were
shelving, the stairs leaned over sideways, ever so far, and the
gang-plank was desperately short and steep.

Still, we saved quite a number of household articles. Some things we
broke and some we forgot, and some things were too big to move in this
way; but we did very well, considering the circumstances.

The wind roared, the tide rose, and the boat groaned and creaked. We
were in the kitchen, trying to take the stove apart (the boarder was
sure we could carry it up, if we could get the pipe out and the legs and
doors off), when we heard a crash. We rushed on deck and found that
the garden had fallen in! Making our way as well as we could toward the
gaping rent in the deck, we saw that the turnip-bed had gone down bodily
into the boarder's room. He did not hesitate, but scrambled down his
narrow stairs. I followed him. He struck a match that he had in his
pocket, and lighted a little lantern that hung under the stairs. His
room was a perfect rubbish heap. The floor, bed, chairs, pitcher,
basin--everything was covered or filled with garden mold and turnips.
Never did I behold such a scene. He stood in the midst of it, holding
his lantern high above his head. At length he spoke.

"If we had time," he said, "we might come down here and pick out a lot
of turnips."

"But how about your furniture?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, that's ruined!" he replied.

So we did not attempt to save any of it, but we got hold of his trunk
and carried that on shore.

When we returned, we found that the water was pouring through his
partition, making the room a lake of mud. And, as the water was rising
rapidly below, and the boat was keeling over more and more, we thought
it was time to leave, and we left.

It would not do to go far away from our possessions, which were piled up
in a sad-looking heap on the shore; and so, after I had gone over to the
milk-woman's to assure Euphemia of our safety, the boarder and I passed
the rest of the night--there was not much of it left--in walking up
and down the beach smoking some cigars which he fortunately had in his
pocket.

In the morning I took Euphemia to the hotel, about a mile away--and
arranged for the storage of our furniture there, until we could find
another habitation. This habitation, we determined, was to be in a
substantial house, or part of a house, which should not be affected by
the tides.

During the morning the removal of our effects was successfully
accomplished, and our boarder went to town to look for a furnished room.
He had nothing but his trunk to take to it.

In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel, where she was taking a
nap (she certainly needed it, for she had spent the night in a wooden
rocking-chair at the milk-woman's), and I strolled down to the river to
take a last look at the remains of old Rudder Grange.

I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to the
canal-boat, and thought how it had been worn by my feet more than any
other's, and how gladly I had walked that way, so often during that
delightful summer. I forgot all that had been disagreeable, and thought
only of the happy times we had had.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and the wind had entirely died
away. When I came within sight of our old home, it presented a doleful
appearance. The bow had drifted out into the river, and was almost
entirely under water. The stern stuck up in a mournful and ridiculous
manner, with its keel, instead of its broadside, presented to the view
of persons on the shore. As I neared the boat I heard a voice. I stopped
and listened. There was no one in sight. Could the sounds come from the
boat? I concluded that it must be so, and I walked up closer. Then I
heard distinctly the words:

"He grasp ed her by the thro at and yell ed, swear to me thou nev er
wilt re veal my se cret, or thy hot heart's blood shall stain this mar
bel fib or; she gave one gry vy ous gasp and--"

It was Pomona!

Doubtless she had climbed up the stern of the boat and had descended
into the depths of the wreck to rescue her beloved book, the reading of
which had so long been interrupted by my harsh decrees. Could I break
in on this one hour of rapture? I had not the heart to do it, and as
I slowly moved away, there came to me the last words that I ever heard
from Rudder Grange:

"And with one wild shry ik to heav en her heart's blo od spat ter ed
that prynce ly home of woe--"



CHAPTER VI. THE NEW RUDDER GRANGE.


I have before given an account of the difficulties we encountered when
we started out house-hunting, and it was this doleful experience which
made Euphemia declare that before we set out on a second search for a
residence, we should know exactly what we wanted.

To do this, we must know how other people live, we must examine into the
advantages and disadvantages of the various methods of housekeeping, and
make up our minds on the subject.

When we came to this conclusion we were in a city boarding-house, and
were entirely satisfied that this style of living did not suit us at
all.

At this juncture I received a letter from the gentleman who had boarded
with us on the canal-boat. Shortly after leaving us the previous fall,
he had married a widow lady with two children, and was now keeping house
in a French flat in the upper part of the city. We had called upon the
happy couple soon after their marriage, and the letter, now received,
contained an invitation for us to come and dine, and spend the night.

"We'll go," said Euphemia. "There's nothing I want so much as to see how
people keep house in a French flat. Perhaps we'll like it. And I must
see those children." So we went.

The house, as Euphemia remarked, was anything but flat. It was very tall
indeed--the tallest house in the neighborhood. We entered the vestibule,
the outer door being open, and beheld, on one side of us, a row
of bell-handles. Above each of these handles was the mouth of a
speaking-tube, and above each of these, a little glazed frame containing
a visiting-card.

"Isn't this cute?" said Euphemia, reading over the cards. "Here's his
name and this is his bell and tube! Which would you do first, ring or
blow?"

"My dear," said I, "you don't blow up those tubes. We must ring the
bell, just as if it were an ordinary front-door bell, and instead of
coming to the door, some one will call down the tube to us."

I rang the bell under the boarder's name, and very soon a voice at the
tube said:

"Well?"

Then I told our names, and in an instant the front door opened.

"Why, their flat must be right here," whispered Euphemia. "How quickly
the girl came!"

And she looked for the girl as we entered. But there was no one there.

"Their flat is on the fifth story," said I. "He mentioned that in his
letter. We had better shut the door and go up."

Up and up the softly carpeted stairs we climbed, and not a soul we saw
or heard.

"It is like an enchanted cavern," said Euphemia. "You say the magic
word, the door in the rock opens and you go on, and on, through the
vaulted passages--"

"Until you come to the ogre," said the boarder, who was standing at the
top of the stairs. He did not behave at all like an ogre, for he was
very glad to see us, and so was his wife. After we had settled down
in the parlor and the boarder's wife had gone to see about something
concerning the dinner, Euphemia asked after the children.

"I hope they haven't gone to bed," she said, "for I do so want to see
the dear little things."

The ex-boarder, as Euphemia called him, smiled grimly.

"They're not so very little," he said. "My wife's son is nearly grown.
He is at an academy in Connecticut, and he expects to go into a civil
engineer's office in the spring. His sister is older than he is. My wife
married--in the first instance--when she was very young--very young in
deed."

"Oh!" said Euphemia; and then, after a pause, "And neither of them is at
home now?"

"No," said the ex-boarder. "By the way, what do you think of this dado?
It is a portable one; I devised it myself. You can take it away with you
to another house when you move. But there is the dinner-bell. I'll show
you over the establishment after we have had something to eat."

After our meal we made a tour of inspection. The flat, which included
the whole floor, contained nine or ten rooms, of all shapes and sizes.
The corners in some of the rooms were cut off and shaped up into closets
and recesses, so that Euphemia said the corners of every room were in
some other room.

Near the back of the flat was a dumb-waiter, with bells and
speaking-tubes. When the butcher, the baker, or the kerosene-lamp maker,
came each morning, he rang the bell, and called up the tube to know what
was wanted. The order was called down, and he brought the things in the
afternoon.

All this greatly charmed Euphemia. It was so cute, so complete. There
were no interviews with disagreeable trades-people, none of the ordinary
annoyances of housekeeping. Everything seemed to be done with a bell, a
speaking-tube or a crank.

"Indeed," said the ex-boarder, "if it were not for people tripping
over the wires, I could rig up attachments by which I could sit in the
parlor, and by using pedals and a key-board, I could do all the work of
this house without getting out of my easy-chair."

One of the most peculiar features of the establishment was the servant's
room. This was at the rear end of the floor, and as there was not much
space left after the other rooms had been made, it was very small; so
small, indeed, that it would accommodate only a very short bedstead.
This made it necessary for our friends to consider the size of the
servant when they engaged her.

"There were several excellent girls at the intelligence office where I
called," said the ex-boarder, "but I measured them, and they were all
too tall. So we had to take a short one, who is only so so. There was
one big Scotch girl who was the very person for us, and I would have
taken her if my wife had not objected to my plan for her accommodation.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Well," said he, "I first thought of cutting a hole in the partition
wall at the foot of the bed, for her to put her feet through."

"Never!" said his wife, emphatically. "I would never have allowed that."

"And then," continued he, "I thought of turning the bed around, and
cutting a larger hole, through which she might have put her head into
the little room on this side. A low table could have stood under the
hole, and her head might have rested on a cushion on the table very
comfortably."

"My dear," said his wife, "it would have frightened me to death to go
into that room and see that head on a cushion on a table--"

"Like John the Baptist," interrupted Euphemia.

"Well," said our ex-boarder, "the plan would have had its advantages."

"Oh!" cried Euphemia, looking out of a back window. "What a lovely
little iron balcony! Do you sit out there on warm evenings?"

"That's a fire-escape," said the ex-boarder. "We don't go out there
unless it is very hot indeed, on account of the house being on fire.
You see there is a little door in the floor of the balcony and an iron
ladder leading to the balcony beneath, and so on, down to the first
story."

"And you have to creep through that hole and go down that dreadful steep
ladder every time there is a fire?" said Euphemia.

"Well, I guess we would never go down but once," he answered.

"No, indeed," said Euphemia; "you'd fall down and break your neck the
first time," and she turned away from the window with a very grave
expression on her face.

Soon after this our hostess conducted Euphemia to the guest-chamber,
while her husband and I finished a bed-time cigar.

When I joined Euphemia in her room, she met me with a mysterious
expression on her face. She shut the door, and then said in a very
earnest tone:

"Do you see that little bedstead in the corner? I did not notice it
until I came in just now, and then, being quite astonished, I said,
'Why here's a child's bed; who sleeps here?' 'Oh,' says she, 'that's
our little Adele's bedstead. We have it in our room when she's here.'
'Little Adele!' said I, 'I didn't know she was little--not small enough
for that bed, at any rate.' 'Why, yes,' said she, 'Adele is only four
years old. The bedstead is quite large enough for her.' 'And she is not
here now?' I said, utterly amazed at all this. 'No,' she answered, 'she
is not here now, but we try to have her with us as much as we can, and
always keep her little bed ready for her.' 'I suppose she's with her
father's people,' I said, and she answered, 'Oh yes,' and bade me
good-night. What does all this mean? Our boarder told us that the
daughter is grown up, and here his wife declares that she is only four
years old! I don't know what in the world to make of this mystery!"

I could give Euphemia no clue. I supposed there was some mistake, and
that was all I could say, except that I was sleepy, and that we could
find out all about it in the morning. But Euphemia could not dismiss the
subject from her mind. She said no more,--but I could see--until I fell
asleep--that she was thinking about it.

It must have been about the middle of the night, perhaps later, when
I was suddenly awakened by Euphemia starting up in the bed, with the
exclamation:

"I have it!"

"What?" I cried, sitting up in a great hurry. "What is it? What have you
got? What's the matter?"

"I know it!" she said, "I know it. Our boarder is a GRANDFATHER! Little
Adele is the grown-up daughter's child. He was quite particular to say
that his wife married VERY young. Just to think of it! So short a time
ago, he was living with us--a bachelor--and now, in four short months,
he is a grandfather!"

Carefully propounded inquiries, in the morning, proved Euphemia's
conclusions to be correct.

The next evening, when we were quietly sitting in our own room, Euphemia
remarked that she did not wish to have anything to do with French flats.

"They seem to be very convenient," I said.

"Oh yes, convenient enough, but I don't like them. I would hate to live
where everything let down like a table-lid, or else turned with a crank.
And when I think of those fire-escapes, and the boarder's grandchild, it
makes me feel very unpleasantly."

"But the grandchild don't follow as a matter of course," said I.

"No," she answered, "but I shall never like French flats."

And we discussed them no more.

For some weeks we examined into every style of economic and respectable
housekeeping, and many methods of living in what Euphemia called
"imitation comfort" were set aside as unworthy of consideration.

"My dear," said Euphemia, one evening, "what we really ought to do is to
build. Then we would have exactly the house we want."

"Very true," I replied; "but to build a house, a man must have money."

"Oh no!" said she, "or at least not much. For one thing, you might join
a building association. In some of those societies I know that you only
have to pay a dollar a week."

"But do you suppose the association builds houses for all its members?"
I asked.

"Of course I suppose so. Else why is it called a building association?"

I had read a good deal about these organizations, and I explained to
Euphemia that a dollar a week was never received by any of them in
payment for a new house.

"Then build yourself," she said; "I know how that can be done."

"Oh, it's easy enough," I remarked, "if you have the money."

"No, you needn't have any money," said Euphemia, rather hastily. "Just
let me show you. Supposing, for instance, that you want to build a house
worth--well, say twenty thousand dollars, in some pretty town near the
city."

"I would rather figure on a cheaper house than that for a country
place," I interrupted.

"Well then, say two thousand dollars. You get masons, and carpenters,
and people to dig the cellar, and you engage them to build your house.
You needn't pay them until it's done, of course. Then when it's all
finished, borrow two thousand dollars and give the house as security.
After that you see, you have only to pay the interest on the borrowed
money. When you save enough money to pay back the loan, the house is
your own. Now, isn't that a good plan?"

"Yes," said I, "if there could be found people who would build your
house and wait for their money until some one would lend you its full
value on a mortgage."

"Well," said Euphemia, "I guess they could be found if you would only
look for them."

"I'll look for them, when I go to heaven," I said.

We gave up for the present, the idea of building or buying a house, and
determined to rent a small place in the country, and then, as Euphemia
wisely said, if we liked it, we might buy it. After she had dropped her
building projects she thought that one ought to know just how a house
would suit before having it on one's hands.

We could afford something better than a canal-boat now, and therefore we
were not so restricted as in our first search for a house. But, the
one thing which troubled my wife--and, indeed, caused me much anxious
thought, was that scourge of almost all rural localities--tramps. It
would be necessary for me to be away all day,--and we could not afford
to keep a man,--so we must be careful to get a house somewhere off the
line of ordinary travel, or else in a well-settled neighborhood, where
there would be some one near at hand in case of unruly visitors.

"A village I don't like," said Euphemia: "there is always so much
gossip, and people know all about what you have, and what you do. And
yet it would be very lonely, and perhaps dangerous, for us to live
off somewhere, all by ourselves. And there is another objection to a
village. We don't want a house with a small yard and a garden at the
back. We ought to have a dear little farm, with some fields for corn,
and a cow, and a barn and things of that sort. All that would be
lovely. I'll tell you what we want," she cried, seized with a sudden
inspiration; "we ought to try to get the end-house of a village. Then
our house could be near the neighbors, and our farm could stretch out a
little way into the country beyond us. Let us fix our minds upon such a
house and I believe we can get it."

So we fixed our minds, but in the course of a week or two we unfixed
them several times to allow the consideration of places, which otherwise
would have been out of range; and during one of these intervals of
mental disfixment we took a house.

It was not the end-house of a village, but it was in the outskirts of
a very small rural settlement. Our nearest neighbor was within vigorous
shouting distance, and the house suited us so well in other respects,
that we concluded that this would do. The house was small, but large
enough. There were some trees around it, and a little lawn in front.
There was a garden, a small barn and stable, a pasture field, and land
enough besides for small patches of corn and potatoes. The rent was low,
the water good, and no one can imagine how delighted we were.

We did not furnish the whole house at first, but what mattered it? We
had no horse or cow, but the pasture and barn were ready for them. We
did not propose to begin with everything at once.

Our first evening in that house was made up of hours of unalloyed bliss.
We walked from room to room; we looked out on the garden and the lawn;
we sat on the little porch while I smoked.

"We were happy at Rudder Grange," said Euphemia; "but that was only
a canal-boat, and could not, in the nature of things, have been a
permanent home."

"No," said I, "it could not have been permanent. But, in many respects,
it was a delightful home. The very name of it brings pleasant thoughts."

"It was a nice name," said Euphemia, "and I'll tell you what we might
do: Let us call this place Rudder Grange--the New Rudder Grange! The
name will do just as well for a house as for a boat."

I agreed on the spot, and the house was christened.

Our household was small; we had a servant--a German woman; and we had
ourselves, that was all.

I did not do much in the garden; it was too late in the season. The
former occupant had planted some corn and potatoes, with a few other
vegetables, and these I weeded and hoed, working early in the morning
and when I came home in the afternoon. Euphemia tied up the rose-vines,
trimmed the bushes, and with a little rake and hoe she prepared a
flower-bed in front of the parlor-window. This exercise gave us splendid
appetites, and we loved our new home more and more.

Our German girl did not suit us exactly at first, and day by day she
grew to suit us less. She was a quiet, kindly, pleasant creature, and
delighted in an out-of-door life. She was as willing to weed in the
garden as she was to cook or wash. At first I was very much pleased with
this, because, as I remarked to Euphemia, you can find very few girls
who would be willing to work in the garden, and she might be made very
useful.

But, after a time, Euphemia began to get a little out of patience with
her. She worked out-of-doors entirely too much. And what she did there,
as well as some of her work in the house, was very much like certain
German literature--you did not know how it was done, or what it was for.

One afternoon I found Euphemia quite annoyed.

"Look here," she said, "and see what that girl has been at work at,
nearly all this afternoon. I was upstairs sewing and thought she was
ironing. Isn't it too provoking?"

It WAS provoking. The contemplative German had collected a lot of short
ham-bones--where she found them I cannot imagine--and had made of them
a border around my wife's flower-bed. The bones stuck up straight a few
inches above the ground, all along the edge of the bed, and the marrow
cavity of each one was filled with earth in which she had planted seeds.

"'These,' she says, 'will spring up and look beautiful,'" said Euphemia;
"they have that style of thing in her country."

"Then let her take them off with her to her country," I exclaimed.

"No, no," said Euphemia, hurriedly, "don't kick them out. It would only
wound her feelings. She did it all for the best, and thought it
would please me to have such a border around my bed. But she is too
independent, and neglects her proper work. I will give her a week's
notice and get another servant. When she goes we can take these horrid
bones away. But I hope nobody will call on us in the meantime."

"Must we keep these things here a whole week?" I asked.

"Oh, I can't turn her away without giving her a fair notice. That would
be cruel."

I saw the truth of the remark, and determined to bear with the bones and
her rather than be unkind.

That night Euphemia informed the girl of her decision, and the next
morning, soon after I had left, the good German appeared with her bonnet
on and her carpet-bag in her hand, to take leave of her mistress.

"What!" cried Euphemia. "You are not going to-day?"

"If it is goot to go at all it is goot to go now," said the girl.

"And you will go off and leave me without any one in the house, after my
putting myself out to give you a fair notice? It's shameful!"

"I think it is very goot for me to go now," quietly replied the girl.
"This house is very loneful. I will go to-morrow in the city to see your
husband for my money. Goot morning." And off she trudged to the station.

Before I reached the house that afternoon, Euphemia rushed out to tell
this story. I would not like to say how far I kicked those ham-bones.

This German girl had several successors, and some of them suited as
badly and left as abruptly as herself; but Euphemia never forgot the
ungrateful stab given her by this "ham-bone girl," as she always
called her. It was her first wound of the kind, and it came in the
very beginning of the campaign when she was all unused to this domestic
warfare.



CHAPTER VII. TREATING OF AN UNSUCCESSFUL BROKER AND A DOG.


It was a couple of weeks, or thereabouts, after this episode that
Euphemia came down to the gate to meet me on my return from the city.
I noticed a very peculiar expression on her face. She looked both
thoughtful and pleased. Almost the first words she said to me were
these:

"A tramp came here to-day."

"I am sorry to hear that," I exclaimed. "That's the worst news I have
had yet. I did hope that we were far enough from the line of travel to
escape these scourges. How did you get rid of him? Was he impertinent?"

"You must not feel that way about all tramps," said she. "Sometimes they
are deserving of our charity, and ought to be helped. There is a great
difference in them."

"That may be," I said; "but what of this one? When was he here, and when
did he go?"

"He did not go at all. He is here now."

"Here now!" I cried. "Where is he?"

"Do not call out so loud," said Euphemia, putting her hand on my arm.
"You will waken him. He is asleep."

"Asleep!" said I. "A tramp? Here?"

"Yes. Stop, let me tell you about him. He told me his story, and it is
a sad one. He is a middle-aged man--fifty perhaps--and has been rich.
He was once a broker in Wall street, but lost money by the failure of
various railroads--the Camden and Amboy, for one."

"That hasn't failed," I interrupted.

"Well then it was the Northern Pacific, or some other one of them--at
any rate I know it was either a railroad or a bank,--and he soon became
very poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful merchant, and
lives in a fine house, with horses and carriages, and all that; and this
poor man has written to his son, but has never had any answer. So now
he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see him. He knows he will not be
turned away if he can once meet his son, face to face. He was very tired
when he stopped here,--and he has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you
know,--and so after I had given him something to eat, I let him lie down
in the outer kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spread
it out for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but he
seems to sleep soundly."