_John_,—endeavoring to look wise, “Well, a brown one.” _Lillie._ “That’s just like you, John; now, don’t you see that a brown one would just spoil the effect?” “Oh! would it?” said John, innocently. “Well, what did you ask me for?” “Why, you tiresome creature! I wanted you to say something. What are you sitting moping over a book for? You don’t entertain me a bit.” “Dear Lillie, I have been talking about every thing I could think of,” said John, apologetically. “Well, I want you to keep on talking, and put up that great heavy book. What is it, any way?” “Lecky’s ‘History of Morals,’” said John. “How dreadful! do you really mean to read it?” “Certainly; we are all reading it.” “Who all?” “Why, Gracie, and Letitia and Rose Ferguson.” “Rose Ferguson? I don’t believe it. Why, Rose isn’t twenty yet! She cannot care about such stuff.” “She does care, and enjoys it too,” said John, eagerly. “It is a pity, then, you didn’t get her for a wife instead of me,” said Lillie, in a tone of pique. Now, this sort of thing does well enough occasionally, said by a pretty woman, perfectly sure of her ground, in the early days of the honey-moon; but for steady domestic diet is not to be recommended. Husbands get tired of swearing allegiance over and over; and John returned to his book quietly, without reply. He did not like the suggestion; and he thought that it was in very poor taste. Lillie embroidered in silence a few minutes, and then threw down her work pettishly. “How close this room is!” John read on. “John, do open the door!” John rose, opened the door, and returned to his book. “Now, there’s that draft from the hall-window. John, you’ll have to shut the door.” John shut it, and read on. “Oh, dear me!” said Lillie, throwing herself down with a portentous yawn. “I do think this is dreadful!” “What is dreadful?” said John, looking up. “It is dreadful to be buried alive here in this gloomy town of Springdale, where there is nothing to see, and nowhere to go, and nothing going on.” “We have always flattered ourselves that Springdale was a most attractive place,” said John. “I don’t know of any place where there are more beautiful walks and rambles.” “But I detest walking in the country. What is there to see? And you get your shoes muddy, and burrs on your clothes, and don’t meet a creature! I got so tired the other day when Grace and Rose Ferguson would drag me off to what they call ‘the glen.’ They kept oh-ing and ah-ing and exclaiming to each other about some stupid thing every step of the way,—old pokey nutgalls, bare twigs of trees, and red and yellow leaves, and ferns! I do wish you could have seen the armful of trash that those two girls carried into their respective houses. I would not have such stuff in mine for any thing. I am tired of all this talk about Nature. I am free to confess that I don’t like Nature, and do like art; and I wish we only lived in New York, where there is something to amuse one.”