As I said before, this book is intended for older folks, or for those who have more of this world’s goods than Edwin and Angelina were supposed to possess; and, therefore, it really supplements--it does not in any measure do away with--‘From Kitchen to Garret;’ and as I am most anxious to impress this upon my readers by not repeating any of the information I gave there, I intend especially in the present chapter to denote how, with a little care, the modest house can be expanded into a more artistic abode, or how a bigger house can be furnished, the while we do not set on one side the furniture with which we began life, and which we possessed ourselves of with so much gladness and with such a sense of importance--at least, I hope all my readers did, for the culture of home and of all that makes a home cannot, in my opinion, be too much developed. Therefore, from their earliest days children should be encouraged to think about their own special rooms, and should be taught to notice and have a voice in the arrangement of all the house. If the house is thoroughly appreciated and cultivated, if, above all, it is the prettiest and happiest place our children know of, we shall not have much difficulty with them when they cease to be children and begin to feel they have a separate existence to ours. They have this separate existence, and we should endeavour that, without in any measure relaxing the ties of duty and politeness, they should be able to feel they are themselves and not our bond-slaves; and this can only be done by consulting and talking with them freely about all we have and do, letting them, if they will, develop their own tastes gradually, but not in a manner that will oust us from our proper place or jar with any of our own pet ideas on the subject of home and its decoration and embellishment; for it is better to endure the ugliest place in the world cheerfully than to live in artistic completeness, if this same artistic completeness means sweeping away all the landmarks of our elders and betters, and leaving them stranded in an unfamiliar world of new tables and chairs, which are nothing to them, and but ill replace the furniture which reminds them of so much that we never knew about or have entirely forgotten. I have known a girl in her zeal for beauty make her mother so abjectly miserable by removing a round table, once the centre of the scattered houseful of boys and girls, and by ruthlessly disposing of clumsy and hideous furniture, made precious by memories of those who have gone into the land of shadows, that I am compelled at times to allow sentiment to sway me and to say, Consider first whether a thing has associations before, in one’s anxiety for beauty, one does away with it. If it have, let it remain, for nothing can ever replace it; but if it have not (and I sternly myself refuse to become sentimental over a chair or footstool), by all means get rid of it, and replace it with something lighter and more modern.