I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature's most impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise--or, perhaps, of warning. "Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream--a fateful dream." "New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside. "I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis; "it looks to be entirely new." "'Tis, ma'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn't been on a month." "So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster--no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls--no tender romances have been woven under its eaves--no wistful yearnings--no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life--no--" "I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma'am, but I believe I've got the very house you're looking for. How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall--" "Exquisite--charming--enchanting--paradisaical--divine!" murmured Sophronia. "And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent. This latter bit of information aroused _my_ strongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once. The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitæs, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered: "My ideal!" Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed: "Enough! We take it!" "Hadn't you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested. "Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate, "my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are never disunited, nor are--" "I don't believe I've got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps we can get in through one of the windows." The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again Sophronia's arm encircled me, and she murmured: "Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"