“If he has been talking to you on either of those subjects,” she returned, “I have no doubt he told you things worth taking home with you, but his pet topics of study are architecture and its sister art, landscape gardening. This house is a creature of his brain, and all the artistic effects in color and pattern, which I know you have the taste to admire, are of his designing.” The simple, unaffected manner in which Zenith showed her pride in her husband’s achievements was refreshing, and the knowledge she imparted only added still more to our high appreciation of our friend. It was now time for Thorwald to speak, and he remarked quietly: “It is true that I love architecture. It is another occupation of which we can never tire and whose resources we can never fathom. A beautiful, dignified, and truly artistic building is one of the highest possible products of our civilization, and such work brings out all the poetic feeling in one’s nature, just as the production of a fine painting or piece of sculpture does. These arts, and literature as well, all have their special devotees among us, but everyone knows enough of all arts to appreciate and enjoy good work in every department. “We build truthfully, and this helps to make what we build beautiful, for truth is beautiful wherever it is found; and beauty is an object to be sought after for its own sake, an enjoyable thing well worth striving for. Religion and art, using both those terms in a comprehensive sense, have worked together, through all our history, to lift up our souls and fit them for higher and higher duties.” “Thorwald,” said Zenith, “I think our friends would enjoy seeing some of our imposing buildings and other works of art while this subject is before them.” That this was not a suggestion that we should start on an extended tour of the country was proved by Thorwald, who said: “Very well, we will then go into the music room again, if you please.” Here we were shown, by the new powers of the telephone, a bewildering succession of the grandest structures our imagination could picture: churches and cathedrals, college buildings, observatories, museums, music halls and private residences. These were not like pictures or views; but the structures themselves, in full perspective and in all the richness of their coloring, seemed to stand before us. Trees waving in the breeze, people and carriages passing in the streets and occasionally a movement at a window or door, all aided the illusion and made it difficult to realize that we were not in the midst of the scenes we were gazing upon. Thorwald or Zenith told us the name or purpose of each building as it appeared, and the novel exhibition closed with the presentation of a large and splendid playhouse. As this was announced I involuntarily exclaimed: “So you have kept the theater, have you? Some good people on the earth think the drama is demoralizing.”