The first house was of gray stone, set back in the grounds; not belonging to one of the old families, who prefer an old mansion, lest they be counted among the _nouveaux riche_. Great bunches of varied-colored coleus and red geranium mingled with the greensward like a piece of mosaic. Vines were beginning to grow over the stone porch, and the whole bespoke comfort, even luxury. Kent pulled the bell with a sinking at heart, as he wondered who would appear and what she would say. A servant, not cleanly in apparel, opened the door after long waiting. The true position of a family can generally be seen through its domestics. “Are the ladies of the house in?” asked the college boy. “What do you want of ’em?” “I am selling a valuable book about the ‘Home.’” “No, the missus don’t want it. She told me as how she niver let a book-agent inside the door, and she’d scold me if I called her. She niver reads nothin’ but a novel—niver,” volunteered the loquacious, but kind-hearted girl, despite her torn apron and soiled hands. At the next mansion Kent was told that the “missus” had gone to the seashore; but the knowing look in the servant’s face showed that she had been instructed to make this reply to all callers. It sounded aristocratic to be at Narragansett Pier or on the Atlantic coast, even though finances would not permit of this refreshing journey. At the next house a kind-faced woman, who really belonged to one of the old families, and felt none too proud to open her own door, bade the young man a pleasant “Good-morning,” and though she did not wish to purchase the book, which, though tastefully made, was commonplace in subject, she thanked him for seeing it, and hoped he would sell elsewhere. His heart was a trifle lighter after this kindly greeting, though his purse grew no heavier. At the next house, and the next, he met with the same refusals. Finally, near the end of the street, the colored man who opened the door was also striving to earn money for a college course. He had been two years in Harvard University already. Both father and mother were dead, but from love for a girl who taught a colored school he had become ambitious, and determined to work his way through some institution. The subject of the book touched his heart. Katie, his school-teacher, would like it; the suggestions about husbands and wives, and the words about neatness, culture, and tenderness, would do both good. “How much is it?” said the colored youth. “Two dollars.” A disappointed look came into the face of the would-be purchaser. “I receive seventy-five cents commission,” said Kent, “and I will let you have the book for one dollar and a half; that will leave twenty-five cents for my dinner.”