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she pressed him he fidgeted, ā€œI donā€™t know; seems to me those kind of houses you speak of have been overdone.ā€

It proved that what he wanted was a house exactly like Sam Clarkā€™s, which was exactly like every third new house in every town in the country: a square, yellow stolidity with immaculate clapboards, a broad screened porch, tidy grass-plots, and concrete walks; a house resembling the mind of a merchant who votes the party ticket straight and goes to church once a month and owns a good car.

He admitted, ā€œWell, yes, maybe it isnā€™t so darn artistic butā ā€”Matter of fact, though, I donā€™t want a place just like Samā€™s. Maybe I would cut off that fool tower heā€™s got, and I think probably it would look better painted a nice cream color. That yellow on Samā€™s house is too kind of flashy. Then thereā€™s another kind of house thatā€™s mighty nice and substantial-looking, with shingles, in a nice brown stain, instead of clapboardsā ā€”seen some in Minneapolis. Youā€™re way off your base when you say I only like one kind of house!ā€

Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie came in one evening when Carol was sleepily advocating a rose-garden cottage.

ā€œYouā€™ve had a lot of experience with housekeeping, aunty, and donā€™t you think,ā€ Kennicott appealed, ā€œthat it would be sensible to have a nice square house, and pay more attention to getting a crackajack furnace than to all this architecture and doodads?ā€

Aunt Bessie worked her lips as though they were an elastic band. ā€œWhy of course! I know how it is with young folks like you, Carrie; you want towers and bay-windows and pianos and heaven knows what all, but the thing to get is closets and a good furnace and a handy place to hang out the washing, and the rest donā€™t matter.ā€

Uncle Whittier dribbled a little, put his face near to Carolā€™s, and sputtered, ā€œCourse it donā€™t! What dā€™you care what folks think about the outside of your house? Itā€™s the inside youā€™re living in. None of my business, but I must say you young folks thatā€™d rather have cakes than potatoes get me riled.ā€

She reached her room before she became savage. Below, dreadfully near, she could hear the broom-swish of Aunt Bessieā€™s voice, and the mop-pounding of Uncle Whittierā€™s grumble. She had a reasonless dread that they would intrude on her, then a fear that she would yield to Gopher Prairieā€™s conception of duty toward an Aunt Bessie and go downstairs to be ā€œnice.ā€ She felt the demand for standardized behavior coming in waves from all the citizens who sat in their sitting-rooms watching her with respectable eyes, waiting, demanding, unyielding. She snarled, ā€œOh, all right, Iā€™ll go!ā€ She powdered her nose, straightened her collar, and coldly marched downstairs. The three elders ignored her. They had advanced from the new house to agreeable general fussing. Aunt Bessie was saying, in a tone like the munching of dry toast:

ā€œI do think Mr. Stowbody ought to have had the rain-pipe fixed at our store right away. I went to see him on Tuesday morning before ten, no, it was couple minutes after ten, but anyway, it was long before noonā ā€”I know because I went right from the bank to the meat market to get some steakā ā€”my! I think itā€™s outrageous, the prices Oleson & McGuire charge for their meat, and it isnā€™t as if they gave you a good cut either but just any old thing, and I had time to get it, and I stopped in at Mrs. Bogartā€™s to ask about her rheumatismā ā€”ā€

Carol was watching Uncle Whittier. She knew from his taut expression that he was not listening to Aunt Bessie but herding his own thoughts, and that he would interrupt her bluntly. He did:

ā€œWill, where cā€™n I get an extra pair of pants for this coat and vest? Dā€™ want to pay too much.ā€

ā€œWell, guess Nat Hicks could make you up a pair. But if I were you, Iā€™d drop into Ike Rifkinā€™sā ā€”his prices are lower than the Bon Tonā€™s.ā€

ā€œHumph. Got the new stove in your office yet?ā€

ā€œNo, been looking at some at Sam Clarkā€™s butā ā€”ā€

ā€œWell, yā€™ ought get ā€™t in. Donā€™t do to put off getting a stove all summer, and then have it come cold on you in the fall.ā€

Carol smiled upon them ingratiatingly. ā€œDo you dears mind if I slip up to bed? Iā€™m rather tiredā ā€”cleaned the upstairs today.ā€

She retreated. She was certain that they were discussing her, and foully forgiving her. She lay awake till she heard the distant creak of a bed which indicated that Kennicott had retired. Then she felt safe.

It was Kennicott who brought up the matter of the Smails at breakfast. With no visible connection he said, ā€œUncle Whit is kind of clumsy, but just the same, heā€™s a pretty wise old coot. Heā€™s certainly making good with the store.ā€

Carol smiled, and Kennicott was pleased that she had come to her senses. ā€œAs Whit says, after all the first thing is to have the inside of a house right, and darn the people on the outside looking in!ā€

It seemed settled that the house was to be a sound example of the Sam Clark school.

Kennicott made much of erecting it entirely for her and the baby. He spoke of closets for her frocks, and ā€œa comfy sewing-room.ā€ But when he drew on a leaf from an old account-book (he was a paper-saver and a string-picker) the plans for the garage, he gave much more attention to a cement floor and a workbench and a gasoline-tank than he had to sewing-rooms.

She sat back and was afraid.

In the present rookery there were odd thingsā ā€”a step up from the hall to the dining-room, a picturesqueness in the shed and bedraggled lilac bush. But the new place would be smooth, standardized, fixed. It was probable, now that Kennicott was past forty, and settled, that this would be the last venture he would ever make in building. So long as she stayed in this ark, she would always have a

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