The armchair I bought, all done over, at a country dealer's, for the inconsiderable sum of six dollars and a half. A late form of Windsor, it has traits that hark back to earlier centuries. You notice how the arms end in crudely carved hands? Well, that's a characteristic of certain Gothic oak armchairs of the early sixteenth century, and the motif may date back to classic times, for all I know. The frame is maple, the seat and curved top-rail, old pine; and though it is not at all beautiful, it is sturdy, sensible, and most comfortable - very much the type of chair you can imagine a village judge sitting in while dispensing wise counsel to his rural clients.

The writing-table - no slant-top desk would fit into the room, for the light from the one window must fall just so to be practical - is maple, stained mahogany, and, including renovation, cost me sixteen dollars. It is of the Pembroke type, being supported by little wooden rests which pull out in the oddest fashion; and the legs are rope-carved and beautifully proportioned, a large rope tapering down to a small foot. Now, rope-carving at its best is exceedingly good, indeed; but it can be very clumsy, and, if I were you, I should always try to pick out the kind that tapers; it has the same relation to furniture that a shapely ankle bore to the delicate limbs of our Victorian ancestresses.

Have you noticed my Dutch curtains? They're the recent solution to a problem that very much vexed me. At first, I tried to carry out the scheme of blue and crimson, with the result that the curtains formed a big, dark blot at the window. And so I ruthlessly discarded them, and bought, instead, four yards of unbleached cotton at fifteen cents a yard, and with blue wool cross-stitched down bands of red raw silk; brilliant enough by day, but, by artificial light, fairly luminous. The silk cost two dollars a yard, and as I used less than eighteen inches, that meant only another dollar. The cross-stitching was continued around the sides and top, and the effect is very like some Russian peasant-work I have just seen. Naturally, all this meant time and trouble; but then, very little that's worth while in this workaday world isn't purchased just this way. And, if my curtains had cost ten, twenty times as much, they could n't be lovelier or more appropriate; for harmony, thank Heaven! is not the handmaid to mere money.

And now you are round to our big lantern-clock, which journeying friends brought us from Bavaria. It is not old, but a clever modern copy of one of the most ancient types of clock, and its black-figured, deep-cream dial and brass pendulum and weights fit admirably into my color-scheme. The little chair below it, another late Windsor variant, I picked up recently at a "shabby shop," and as O------painted it, will add only the price of a small can of black Jap-a-lac.

Please look with attention at the built-in bookshelves; I don't believe you '11 ever see them so tidy again. Our house literally bulges books: every room except the dining-room has some, and occasionally they stray even in there; while, as for the study, at times that resembles Vierge's "Don Quixote in His Library." Still I should rather have it that way; how awful it would be to have to say, "O------, your Alice wants to read"; and then wait for glass doors to be opened, and a brightly bound, stiff-backed, unread volume to be placed in my hands. Ah, that book, "Vera," haunts me!

The slat-back armchair, a characteristic lateeighteenth-century type, - the finials, and the well-turned arms that extend just half the width of the seat, are particularly good points, - I bought at a farmhouse in the sleepy little across-the-river village, for four dollars and a half, and a country joiner charged me three dollars to paint it black and put in a splint-bottom. It is a comfortable chair to sit and rock and read in, though honesty compels me to say that, if you swayed too vigorously, you might go over backward. And yet these short little rockers, just the same length in front as behind, prove the chair's ancientry, hence its collecting desirableness.

The couch I am rather proud of, too; it's not only a couch but a strategic move, a bit of fine diplomacy. For, beyond any other piece of furniture, I detest a Morris chair: I detest it on principle, and, besides, I knew that in this little study it would sprawl all over the floor in most unseemly fashion. So I said to O------, "What a pity it is that we have n't room for both a Morris chair and a couch. Still, since we must choose, I do think a couch will be more generally useful and comfortable." And so we compromised on a couch. (Shall I count its price? You see, we had had it around the house forever, and I really don't remember. Then, too, a couch is something you can pay as much or as little for as you please; I should suppose a good average was about fifteen dollars.) The cushions - two covered with blue endurance cloth, the third with unbleached cotton, a broad strip of blue cross-stitched on with crimson silk adorning the centre - were, altogether, four dollars and eleven cents; but, of course, it is the more expensive coverlet that makes the couch's beauty and interest. This is a fine piece of double weaving, in the pattern that is known in Virginia as "Doors and Windows," and the color is resplendent, the very essence of blue, a high tribute to the worth of the old indigo dye-pot. It came from a little shop in West Philadelphia, and cost only twenty dollars.

I like a map for a man's study, don't you? Naturally, if I had my way, I'd hang an early map of New Hampshire in its place, but my family seem to prefer the usefulness of this one. An old mantelpiece, plain and not especially beautiful, used to stand where the map now hangs; but, as the chimney communication had been destroyed, and there was no way of adjusting even a Franklin stove without an ugly and unconcealable pipe showing, I had it taken down, for a mantel not related to a fireplace is purposeless decoration, and one smacking too much of the cheap modern flat. But, alas, I could not so easily do away with the old stovepipe hole just above the door that leads to the dining-room; to take it down would have been to tear the wall to pieces, so here I hung a concealing plate, fortunately colored in harmony with the room. Delightful in itself, with a slightly lustred edge and border decoration of dark-rose and light-brown scrolls, it is interesting because it once belonged to Andrew Jackson, and was part of a set of china given by him to my grandfather, a neighbor and close friend in those early Nashville days. The pattern is called "Corinthian," a ware that I seem to remember having seen advertised in my beloved "Columbian Centinel," in the eighteen-twenties. But I do wonder sometimes what Daniel Webster would say, if ever he returned, to see his old-time enemy's plate adorning a Hanover wall!

The little brass kettle there in the corner - can you see it? - I picked up at my Obliging Junkman's for a dollar. They are easily found in the North Country, these little kettles, and they are highly usable in a variety of ways: to fill with flowers, to hold a fern pot, or, as I have done here, for a small wastebasket. You must admit that it is as fireproof as one of those dappled metal abominations that desolate so many men's studies, and that it's infinitely better-looking. I should like to show it to you, really, just to let you see how eminently practical it is.

And, oh, I do wish you could look at my Scotch coverlet, as it hangs there against the wall - so fine, so glowing; the colors of blue and crimson and deep ecru continued in the hooked rug below. Ah, whenever I behold that rug, I know I 'm a lucky lady! It was presented to me by a friend whose own collection is a marvel. The edge is black, the background a pleasant mingling of light browns, grays, and touches of coral; and though it is small (the dimensions are two feet by three and an inch ) it is the most notable rug in my possession. In the centre is the American shield, very much like the shields that my eagle cup-plates bear, and thirty-one stars are worked around the shield and in the corners. In the days of its youth it was a swaggering, truculent bit of color. Time, thank goodness, has beautifully softened all that, while still leaving the patriotic sentiment. For two reasons it does not lie upon the floor: first, because it is too valuable (patriotic designs always ranking higher, from a connoisseur's point of view, than any other pattern); second, - and very much greater, - because it's a national emblem. I have never been able to understand why loyal and high-minded New England women persisted in working the two sacred symbols, the Cross and the Flag, on everyday rugs! Its beauty of color, as well as its significance, justifies its lying in a glowing strip across my old linen-chest, in happy companionship with the coverlet above it.

As for the pine chest, a good eighteenth-century piece, I bought that for eighteen dollars, and painted it black myself. It is proportioned with fine plainness; its height is thirty-four inches, its width thirty-five, while the depth is seventeen; the base shows the Hepplewhite French foot, and the drawer has two fine oval brasses. I suppose this drawer held the sheets and pillowcases, while the upper chest, which has a lifting lid and simulates two drawers, was intended for the blankets. It is a desirable chattel, and most useful, since it supplements the storage-space of the three cupboards below the built-in bookcases.

Until I worked seriously with my "parlour bedroom," I had no idea that such a small chamber could be made at once so agreeable and so practical. There are crimsons enough to warm it in winter, and blues enough to make it tolerable in summer, when, if the sun glares too hot because it faces full south, I can close the heavy, old-fashioned, green shutters; though, I admit, it does seem a shame ever to shut out the tall, inquisitive hollyhocks and the briary bush that smells so sweet. Still, never can the sense of color and life be utterly banished, no matter what you do. It is a sufficiently attractive room when sunlight splashes the floor, and all outdoors calls you; but behind a curtain of cold rain, in the pleasant company of old, rested, restful furniture, with the forever fresh adventure of books and reading, shut in, safe, and sheltered, what more could O------want?

- unless it were a Morris chair!