As an author Mrs. Deland fully recognizes the importance of systematizing her work, therefore she has long made it a custom to deny herself to every one during the morning hours in order to devote them exclusively to writing. The library, whose attraction has already been referred to, makes an ideal workshop, and as such deserves to rank as far and away the most interesting room in the house. It is usually flooded with sunshine, and is always light, the open fire contributing further brightness, and bringing into requisition a quaint pair of andirons, shaped in the form of two revolutionary soldiers standing on guard. The window, framing a sheet of glass that might well prove problematic to a less capable housekeeper, gives on the rear of several Chestnut Street houses whose old roofs and old chimneys reach nearly to its level and are directly outside. A faint twittering tells of the presence of those _gamins_ among birds, the sparrows, and a closer search for the little fellows reveals their bright eyes and ruffled feathers, as seen emerging from the crevices into which they have contrived to squeeze themselves in their search for shelter and warmth. There is space beyond, with only the shifting clouds to gaze upon, and the stillness and repose of the spot speak well for the writer’s chances in regard to the maintenance of moods and consecutive thought. The ill-starred fortunes of “Philip and His Wife” were followed from amid these same peaceful surroundings, and the commodious desk near the window doubtless held manuscript sheets of that tale, as well as of others more recently written. A cast of Mr. Deland’s hand is suspended from one side of the desk, and his share in the possession of the room is indicated by a central writing-table with telephone attachment. If he chances to look up while transacting such business as invades the home, he will meet with the gentle face of one of Lucca della Robia’s angels, or his eyes may wander from this relief, and the mantelpiece against which it is placed, to a large photograph of Boston, and a number of well-selected pictures covering the walls. Mrs. Deland’s first productions were in verse, and an idea as to their spontaneity may be gathered from the fact that several of the poems which appeared under the title of “In An Old Garden” were originally jotted down upon the leaves of a market-book, to be left in the hands of a friend whose sympathy and belief awakened the first sense of power, and to whom the volume was dedicated. One of these prosaic bits of ruled paper is still in existence. It bears the penciled words of “The Clover,” and, by way of illustration, a graceful spray of the flower, suggestively traced over all, as if thrown upon the page.