by chestnut trees, some gnarled fruit trees, and a rough hedge of roses. The great green door is opened; we enter, curious to see what is to be our abode for three months. The children, always first, rush into the house. "Oh, where are the chairs and tables?" they cry in dismay.

The first room is empty of all except a gaunt,

spectral clock, which looks as though it has marked the time for centuries; the second is furnished only with a wheeled chair of antique construction, of which the children make a prize directly. We had understood that there were no luxuries, but had not come prepared for absolute.

destitution of civilized commodities. We look each other in the face, and pass on silently.

Domestic civilization begins on the first floor, but it is a civilization of the past. A vaulted flight of stone steps leads into a great dining-room, with a stone chimney corner of mediæval dimensions, heavy beams across the ceiling, and old corniced wooden cupboards in the depth of the thick walls. A wondrous round oak table on a circle of carved pillars stands in the centre, several high-backed black oak chairs are ranged around, and on the walls a collection of family portraits, in the Kneller style, hang in carved octagon frames. The sun shining through three windows fills this charmingly quaint room, and we fall in love with it on the spot.

Opening from the right is a bedroom with a mysterious old canopied bedstead, hung with yellow drapery and fringes of a manufactory unknown to our modern minds. More old paintings, and a chest of drawers of such solid and great proportions that one would imagine the ancient possessors were of the race of giants. The same antiquity and solidity runs through the house. Another room is furnished with certain carved armchairs, which the united efforts of two persons could scarcely move. They are covered with

ancient Cordova leather, and bear the family arms in a shield on the back. The tables are slabs of oak some inches thick, resting on solid pillars or lyre-shaped tressels. The doors are all of rich dark old oak, and the keys veritable antiquarian treasures of medieval ornamental ironwork.

Upstairs we find several bedrooms, and another large salone, furnished with the Cordova leather chairs and oak tables, on one of which is a draught and backgammon board of primitive construction, the games being marked out with red and white paint. There is also an hour glass which Saturn himself might have used. On the walls are a collection of paintings of a fearful and appalling description. They are certain conglomerations of fruit. and flowers arranged so as to represent human figures, and they have a peculiarly awful aspect.

In one room are two old carved oak bedsteads, so very solid as to be immovable. The same room has also two old oak chests, fully ten feet long, and supported on carved lions' claws. They are large and dark and mysterious enough to entomb a dozen Griseldas,-for Boccaccio has shown that the mistletoe bough legend is of Italian origin, a certain Countess Griselda being the real heroine.

These casse we suppose to have been the repositories of the ancient possessors' treasures of

homespun and brocades. Every household of mediæval times in Italy possessed such chests, and every bride had one to hold her corredo, or outfit of house and personal linen.

"What a delightful old house!" exclaims Aunt Louisa. "It ought to be full of legends; I must find them all out while we are here."

But what is this door we have not opened! We peep and are half frightened. It is a kind of lumber closet leading up some ruined or unfinished stairs. Black walls, black logs and sticks and shapeless lumber, all dim, dark, and mysterious, with here and there a face looming out of an old canvas like a ghost. We shut it up again, and go down to an impromptu meal, for which the hungry children are craving.

Of course the cook is in despair. She declares the kitchen is destitute of everything needful, and what there is is rusty with age. But cooks are always hard to please out of their own kitchenand very often in it. She only smiles grimly when "We have not come here for luxuries, but for health and coolness, and are only too willing to give up conventionality for this lovely scenery."

the housewife says,

After dinner we have leisure to make further explorations, and discover a most delightful ter

race or loggia, with a roof of oaken beams supported by pillars. Here we shall be able to sit and enjoy the cool air, the wide view of the distant mountains, and the musical rippling of a tiny waterfall tumbling down its rocky course through the lawn just below us. On the other side of the house is a quaint, grassy courtyard, with

a fountain of cool water, stone tables and seats. Above the fountain a low wall is covered with luxuriant Virginia creeper, behind which the chestnut woods rise up green and rich, clothing the steep side of a mountain.

Over the door of the house are the family