Next we come to the bed; to one of my difficulties, too, for my son had given me strict orders as to the masculine effect of the room. Well, of course, a bed of this kind simply had to have a valance, - they always did, - but it took my most masterly argument and persuasion, as well as the promise of a pair of military hairbrushes, to do away with the chagrin of what he calls "frills." The counterpane is made of seersucker, in creams with two shades of blue, an ecru stripe, and a tiny thread of red, the colors which are repeated in the window curtains; for I long ago discovered that a white coverlet and a small boy are a contradiction in terms. The material cost twenty-five cents a yard, and it took twelve and a half yards to make it. As to the bed, it is a good, plain maple low-poster, with a very engaging headboard. Beautifully finished in the full cherry tone, it came from the shop of the man L------and I call our Favorite Dealer. I am rather proud of the way I concealed my pillows. Ruffled shams were denied me by my stern son; white would be the wrong note against the counterpane; so I bought - what do you think? Two and a half yards of blue-bordered crash dish-toweling. A little cross-stitch red line runs just above the blue, and in the corners I worked formal, miniature trees in the same shades. The small cherry light-stand beside the bed was three dollars more. On it are an old brass candlestick - another gift - and a much-adored and worn copy of "Treasure Island" - my son's bedside choice. The straight-hanging curtains at the windows were made of cotton crepe costing fifteen cents a yard, - ten yards made them, - and the colors and effect are charming.

The modest black Windsor rocker I want you especially to notice, it is such an agreeable chair, admirably proportioned, and thoroughly comfortable to sit and read in - the reason why it has its place near the window and beside the bookshelves. It is joined with wooden pegs, and you will realize my luck when I tell you that two dollars was its price. It is earlier in type than the rest of the furniture, but, somehow, it fits in with the feeling of the room as if it were a sister piece.

The bureau is one I got for eleven dollars and a half at an autumn auction that I went to with L------; quite a wonderful auction, for she bought a large mahogany mirror-frame for twenty-five cents and an etched globe for an astral lamp for a nickel, while I secured my warming pan and the loveliest old brass latch you ever saw for a dollar and a quarter. I think we started at daybreak; on such quests we are like Chaucer's heroine, "up rose the sun and up rose Emilie," and we were equally matinal. It was an old, old house by our North Country way of reckoning, and I talked to a kinsman of the people who were moving away, tired of farming. He lamented their lack of interest in the homestead, and the decay of the family fortunes, and told me that his great-great-uncle, a country cabinetmaker, had built my bureau himself. It is made of birch, with the drawer-fronts of beautiful bird's-eye maple, and time has darkened and enriched the color of the woods so much that it goes becomingly with the mahogany mirror hanging above it. The mirror represents one of my "trades," but I know that its value - the glass was in it - was two dollars, and having it put into condition was two dollars more. I am getting almost superstitious about this figure, for the old "Star" rug at the side of the bed was also two dollars; but I am breaking the spell, because the leather, brass-bound, nail-headed trunk, which you can just barely catch a glimpse of, and which affords such an excellent place for magazines and oddments, I bought at another auction for ten cents. (And here's a collecting "tip," by the way. Oftentimes it's worth while buying these antiquated trunks, just for the gamble of what may be inside. R------paid fifteen cents for one once, and was rewarded by finding, among other pleasing things, a really beautiful oblong snuffbox, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl.) But let me go back to my "Star" rug. It is quite unique in design, a type that does not seem to be reproduced nowadays. An old up-country woman told me how it was made, a secret I pass on to you. The border is formed of two rows of dark braid, but the stars are worked on eight-inch squares of woolen cloth which are afterwards cross-stitched together with bright crewels. Gay colored yarns, too, are used in making the six-pointed stars, and these are worked across a pattern cut out of tin, - a stiff cardboard would be quite as good, I am sure, - the stitches being taken over and over, and then slit down the middle, so that the tin-form can be removed. Last of all, the yarn is clipped close, so that it resembles in effect a drawn-in rug which has been carefully sheared. It really is very pretty, very simple, and, oh, so very softly toned! I do wish Time did lovely things like that to human beings!

The round rug in front of the fireplace is old and quite delightful, too: a combination of knitted centre and crocheted border, the design a black and ecru cart-wheel. We found it on one of our "rugging" expeditions, at such an interesting house, little and low, and set just at the edge of a brown trout-stream. I remember thinking how enchanting it would be to stand on the shady back-porch, and catch a few trout for breakfast every morning. The house was as neat as wax inside, and the floor was covered with the fruits of the housewife's industry, lovely rugs that she would n't "part with." Mine I found, doubled up and thrown in a corner under a bench on the piazza; if I craved those old things, I could have them for seventy-five cents apiece, though what in creation I wanted with them, she did n't know. When I asked her how she ever managed to accomplish so much, she told me of the white and drifted winters, - ah, don't I know them! - not a neighbor near, and the hours that would be so lonely if it were not for her work. The beauty she created was her consolation.

My braided rug is new, one of the most attractive examples of modern work that I have ever seen, and done with commendable fineness. I furnished the rags, of course, and the work cost six dollars. In it are blended our sartorial hopes and fears for years past. Do you realize what a family record a braided rug may become? I think you would, if you could have beheld the Littlest Daughter the other day, lying flat on the floor, and chanting a litany that ran something like this: "And here's Mama's green velvet, and my blue dress, and Sister's blue dress with the white dots, and the used-to-be hall curtains, and Daddy's gray trousers!" Just try saving your old rags and see what an account of the every dayness of existence they will sum up for you.

My pictures are not many; besides the two I mentioned, is a pair of valentines just as engaging as, although more robust than, the two in "the prettiest room." They sing the loves of an Early Victorian soldier and sailor, in verses that breathe a noble sentiment, but that do not always rhyme. But what matters a mixed metaphor or so, or give and revive being supposed to chime, when intention is so worthy? Church and State go together in these tender missives; the soldier points reassuringly to a church, - his is no light flirtation! - and the sailor waves a Union Jack as sheltering to Love's messenger as ever it was to little Rose Maybud in "Ruddygore." What on earth did those carping critics of the "Gentleman's Magazine" find to object to in such guileless tokens? Seriously, I am very fond of them, and always a great believer in the value of these old, charming, inexpensive prints for maintaining the proper wall-feeling of a room of this sort. Over the trunk hangs another black-framed picture, a little French print, Le Chien Savant - which gives interest to that rather blank space.

All told, this little south chamber cost slightly less than sixty-three dollars. Do you like it? I hope so, and yet, when you come to see me, it may look different; for now I am showing it to you unadorned by my son. Then it may be the banner-hung, trophy-filled room of the small boy who lives in a college town. You see, our cottage is fairly ringed round with fraternity houses, and they all have ash-piles; and when a student throws a thing away, it is ready for its last long home, goodness knows! I don't think that any of you can imagine how quaintly antique the Venus of Milo looks until you see her without her head. Besides, my son is suffering at present with what Mr. Tarkington calls "Bingism." Only the other day I surprised a frowning arsenal of wooden revolvers nailed up against the wall. Oh, well, a boy's will is the wind's will, and sometimes it does blow into a hurricane! I am endeavoring to lose my interior decorating instinct, and trying to be just a good mother. Why should I resent his mechanical constructions spread broadcast over the floor? They are the little, tangible symbols of his dreams and ambitions, and I confide to you a secret: I am hoping that the mantle of greatness of our Elijah is going to fall upon his shoulders.