And, gracious! what changes has "our house" undergone since first dear Alice pictured it as a possibility to me! It has passed through every character, form, and style of architecture conceivable. From five rooms it has grown to fourteen. The reception parlor, chameleon-like, has changed color eight times. There have duly loomed up bewildering visions of a library, a drawing-room, a butler's pantry, a nursery, a laundry--oh, it quite takes my breath away to recall and recount the possibilities which Alice's hopes and fancies conjured up.
But, just two months ago to-day Alice burst in upon me. I was in my study over the kitchen figuring upon the probable date of the conjunction of Venus and Saturn in the year 1963.
"Reuben, dear," cried Alice, "I 've done it! I 've bought a place!"
"Alice Fothergill Baker," says I, "what _do_ you mean!"
She was all out of breath--so transported with delight was she that she could hardly speak. Yet presently she found breath to say: "You know the old Schmittheimer place--the house that sets back from the street and has lovely trees in the yard? You remember how often we 've gone by there and wished we had a home like it? Well, I 've bought it! Do you understand, Reuben dear? I 've bought it, and we 've got a home at last!"
"Have you _paid_ for it, darling?" I asked.
"N-n-no, not yet," she answered, "but I 'm going to, and you 're going to help me, are n't you, Reuben?"
"Alice," says I, going to her and putting my arms about her, "I don't know what you 've done, but of course I 'll help you--yes, dearest, I 'll back you to the last breath of my life!"
Then she made me put on my boots and overcoat and hat and go with her to see her new purchase--"our house!"
Everybody's house is better made by his neighbors. This philosophical utterance occurs in one of those black-letter volumes which I purchased with the money left me by my Aunt Susan (of blessed memory!). Even if Alice and I had not fully made up our minds, after nineteen years of planning and figuring, what kind of a house we wanted, we could have referred the important matter to our neighbors in the confident assurance that these amiable folk were much more intimately acquainted with our needs and our desires than we ourselves were. The utter disinterestedness of a neighbor qualifies him to judge dispassionately of your requirements. When he tells you that you ought to do so and so or ought to have such and such a thing, his counsel should be heeded, because the probabilities are that he has made a careful study of you and he has unselfishly arrived at conclusions which intelligently contemplate your welfare. In planning for oneself one is too likely to be directed by narrow prejudices and selfish considerations.