"Well," said he, "I first thought of cutting a hole in the partition wall at the foot of the bed, for her to put her feet through.""Never!" said his wife, emphatically. "I would never have allowed that.""And then," continued he, "I thought of turning the bed around, and cutting a larger hole, through which she might have put her head into the little room on this side. A low table could have stood under the hole, and her head might have rested on a cushion on the table very comfortably.""My dear," said his wife, "it would have frightened me to death to go into that room and see that head on a cushion on a table--""Like John the Baptist," interrupted Euphemia.
"Well," said our ex-boarder, "the plan would have had its advantages.""Oh!" cried Euphemia, looking out of a back window. "What a lovely little iron balcony! Do you sit out there on warm evenings?""That's a fire-escape," said the ex-boarder. "We don't go out there unless it is very hot indeed, on account of the house being on fire. You see there is a little door in the floor of the balcony and an iron ladder leading to the balcony beneath, and so on, down to the first story.""And you have to creep through that hole and go down that dreadful steep ladder every time there is a fire?" said Euphemia.
"Well, I guess we would never go down but once," he answered.
"No, indeed," said Euphemia; "you'd fall down and break your neck the first time," and she turned away from the window with a very grave expression on her face.
Soon after this our hostess conducted Euphemia to the guest-chamber, while her husband and I finished a bed-time cigar.
When I joined Euphemia in her room, she met me with a mysterious expression on her face. She shut the door, and then said in a very earnest tone:
"Do you see that little bedstead in the corner? I did not notice it until I came in just now, and then, being quite astonished, Isaid, 'Why here's a child's bed; who sleeps here?' 'Oh,' says she, 'that's our little Adele's bedstead. We have it in our room when she's here.' 'Little Adele!' said I, 'I didn't know she was little--not small enough for that bed, at any rate.' 'Why, yes,'
said she, 'Adele is only four years old. The bedstead is quite large enough for her.' 'And she is not here now?' I said, utterly amazed at all this. 'No,' she answered, 'she is not here now, but we try to have her with us as much as we can, and always keep her little bed ready for her.' 'I suppose she's with her father's people,' I said, and she answered, 'Oh yes,' and bade me good-night. What does all this mean? Our boarder told us that the daughter is grown up, and here his wife declares that she is only four years old! I don't know what in the world to make of this mystery!"I could give Euphemia no clue. I supposed there was some mistake, and that was all I could say, except that I was sleepy, and that we could find out all about it in the morning. But Euphemia could not dismiss the subject from her mind. She said no more,--but I could see--until I fell asleep--that she was thinking about it.
It must have been about the middle of the night, perhaps later, when I was suddenly awakened by Euphemia starting up in the bed, with the exclamation:
"I have it!"
"What?" I cried, sitting up in a great hurry. "What is it? What have you got? What's the matter?""I know it!" she said, "I know it. Our boarder is a GRANDFATHER!
Little Adele is the grown-up daughter's child. He was quite particular to say that his wife married VERY young. Just to think of it! So short a time ago, he was living with us--a bachelor--and now, in four short months, he is a grandfather!"Carefully propounded inquiries, in the morning, proved Euphemia's conclusions to be correct.
The next evening, when we were quietly sitting in our own room, Euphemia remarked that she did not wish to have anything to do with French flats.
"They seem to be very convenient," I said.
"Oh yes, convenient enough, but I don't like them. I would hate to live where everything let down like a table-lid, or else turned with a crank. And when I think of those fire-escapes, and the boarder's grandchild, it makes me feel very unpleasantly.""But the grandchild don't follow as a matter of course," said I.
"No," she answered, "but I shall never like French flats."And we discussed them no more.
For some weeks we examined into every style of economic and respectable housekeeping, and many methods of living in what Euphemia called "imitation comfort" were set aside as unworthy of consideration.
"My dear," said Euphemia, one evening, "what we really ought to do is to build. Then we would have exactly the house we want.""Very true," I replied; "but to build a house, a man must have money.""Oh no!" said she, "or at least not much. For one thing, you might join a building association. In some of those societies I know that you only have to pay a dollar a week.""But do you suppose the association builds houses for all its members?" I asked.
"Of course I suppose so. Else why is it called a building association?"I had read a good deal about these organizations, and I explained to Euphemia that a dollar a week was never received by any of them in payment for a new house.
"Then build yourself," she said; "I know how that can be done.""Oh, it's easy enough," I remarked, "if you have the money.""No, you needn't have any money," said Euphemia, rather hastily.
"Just let me show you. Supposing, for instance, that you want to build a house worth--well, say twenty thousand dollars, in some pretty town near the city.""I would rather figure on a cheaper house than that for a country place," I interrupted.
"Well then, say two thousand dollars. You get masons, and carpenters, and people to dig the cellar, and you engage them to build your house. You needn't pay them until it's done, of course.
