At first, when I began to write these words, I looked round my parlour to see just which of my old and cherished pieces best could speak my words of farewell, the epilogue of "The Next-to-Nothing House." Should it be the Hepplewhite tip-table, a slim, pretty lady, ready to drop a curtsy, and make a gracious speech, or my capacious bannister-back armchair, which must have held in its time so many judicial, portly figures? And then, suddenly, I decided that, since I had dramatized my own domesticity, it was I who was the chief protagonist; and so it is Myself that is speaking to you.

Now, if you have done what I never under any circumstances do, read the "Prologue" first of all, you know my philosophy of collecting. May I share with you, also, my philosophy of housekeeping, which is, indeed, for most women just another phrasing of the dailiness of life? It implies much care, much work, but, after all, there is n't much wrong with work itself. It's "worry that's the rust on the blade." If I had my way with this world, I'd make everybody, men and women alike, work usefully with their hands some part of the day.

That was really the trouble with the Garden of Eden; in this purposeless existence there was nothing for Adam and Eve to do; everything was miraculously accomplished for them. But if Adam had had to dig around the roots of that Tree of Knowledge, loosen the dark, sweet-smelling earth of springtime; mulch it and prune it and pick the apples and pile them in great, golden mounds, he would n't have had time for discontent. And if Eve had had to pare those apples and make them into luscious pies, or stir a bubbling cauldron of lucent amber sirups, she never would have harkened to that very subtle serpent. Rather she would have said, "Adam, if you don't drive away that pestiferous snake, I simply can't make my jelly jell!"

No, the thing that is wrong with housework is monotony, the endless monotony of uncreative routine; washing the same cup and hanging it on the same hook on the same shelf three times a day without any hope of change. But so are created order and system, you argue. (Others besides Alice in Wonderland enjoy contriving imaginary conversations.) And I reply that these two virtues are excellent but not sufficing. I am trying to be fair-minded. I frankly own that there are times when I adore a wild spree of intense domesticity; but, to be equally honest, this impulse generally occurs when I have n't been doing a lot of it. And there are other women who, like Hilda Lessways, hate it and so do it "passionately and thoroughly." And I want women to like it; it's got to be done, and, properly interpreted and rewarded, it's a fine, big, intelligent piece of work. Besides, dear knows, no man can ever do it! It was the way of a man with a house that first made me an ardent suffragist.

Nor do I believe that it is solitude which shatters the domestic nerves. I greatly admire Dr. Myerson; for the most part I live his willing protestant to be, but I do not always agree with him. I cannot admit that solitude, conducive to daydreaming, is in itself a bad thing. I like to work swiftly and alone, thinking, all the time that my hands are busy, pleasant things about my house; thinking pleasant thoughts, and writing them down. And even if my sisters under their skins have not precisely this pleasure, I still want them to have something, some blessed material good, to long for and look forward to - and get! If a woman must have solitary confinement in her housework, at least fill her home with agreeable things, the things that are tangible desires. You remember, don't you, Maud Muller's daydreaming, The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned.

Well, I want those monotonous cups to change, somehow, to pretty pink-lustre tea-sets, the shelves to a corner-cupboard, shell-topped, lovely.

Moreover, my creative routine implies a really much bigger thing, the economic independence of women: for which I have Scriptural justification. Turn to your "Proverbs," and read about the woman whose price was "far above rubies," whose valiant soul resembled a merchant-ship. "She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.... She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant. . . . She considereth a field, and buyeth it" Her routine was creative; her household was well worth careful guidance. Figuratively speaking, I behold you diligent with spindle and loom; but what I also want is to see you considering a field, and buying it if you want to!

So, my dear Friends in Collecting, I am wishing you this greatest of good things. I wish you, also, high, incomparable adventures along the broad road that stretches, and everything you desire - almost. Not quite! Leave something forever to anticipation; keep, I pray you, always one fair Aladdin's window, for nothing you can ever buy will be so lovely as that.