or homemade shingles, and stacked them, log-cabin fashion. He was preparing to build his first house.
It rose little by little through that summer. Henry built it himself, helped by one of the hired men. It was a good, substantial, Middle—Western home, 32 x 32 feet and containing seven rooms and a roomy attic. In the evenings, after supper, dishwashing and the chores at the barn were finished, he and Clara strolled over in the twilight to inspect the day's progress.
They climbed together over the loose boards which made temporary floors, looked at the skeleton partitions of studding, planned where the stoves should be set and what kind of paper should be chosen for the walls. Then they walked around the outside, imagined with pride how well the house would look when the siding was on and painted white, and planned where the flower beds should be in the front yard.
"Let's be getting on back," said Henry. "I saw an article in that French magazine that came to-day about a Frenchman who invented some kind of a carriage that runs by itself, without horses sort of a steam engine to pull it."
"Did you?" said Clara. "How interesting! Oh, look! The moon's coming up."
They loitered back through the clover fields, sweet smelling in the dew, climbed over the stile into the apple orchard, where the leaves were silver and black in the moonlight, and so came slowly home. Margaret had cut a watermelon,
