In short, in less than a year it was all done, without any quarrel, any noise, any violence,—­done, I scarce knew when or how, but with the utmost deference to my wishes, the most amiable hopes that I would not put myself out, the most sincere protestations, that, if I liked it better as it was, my goddesses would give up and acquiesce.  In fact, I seemed to do it of myself, constrained thereto by what the Emperor Napoleon has so happily called the logic of events,—­that old, well-known logic by which the man who has once said A must say B, and he who has said B must say the whole alphabet.  In a year, we had a parlor with two lounges in decorous recesses, a fashionable sofa, and six chairs and a looking-glass, and a grate always shut up, and a hole in the floor which kept the parlor warm, and great, heavy curtains that kept out all the light that was not already excluded by the green shades.

It was as proper and orderly a parlor as those of our most fashionable neighbors; and when our friends called, we took them stumbling into its darkened solitude, and opened a faint crack in one of the window-shades, and came down in our best clothes, and talked with them there.  Our old friends rebelled at this, and asked what they had done to be treated so, and complained so bitterly that gradually we let them into the secret that there was a great south-room which I had taken for my study, where we all sat, where the old carpet was down, where the sun shone in at the great window, where my wife’s plants flourished and the canary-bird sang, and my wife had her sofa in the corner, and the old brass andirons glistened and the wood-fire crackled,—­in short, a room to which all the household fairies had emigrated.

When they once had found that out, it was difficult to get any of them to sit in our parlor.  I had purposely christened the new room my study, that I might stand on my rights as master of ceremonies there, though I opened wide arms of welcome to any who chose to come.  So, then, it would often come to pass, that, when we were sitting round the fire in my study of an evening, the girls would say,—­

“Come, what do we always stay here for?  Why don’t we ever sit in the parlor?”

And then there would be manifested among guests and family-friends a general unwillingness to move.

“Oh, hang it, girls!” would Arthur say; “the parlor is well enough, all right; let it stay as it is, and let a fellow stay where he can do as he pleases and feels at home”; and to this view of the matter would respond divers of the nice young bachelors who were Arthur’s and Tom’s sworn friends.

In fact, nobody wanted to stay in our parlor now.  It was a cold, correct, accomplished fact; the household fairies had left it,—­and when the fairies leave a room, nobody ever feels at home in it.  No pictures, curtains, no wealth of mirrors, no elegance of lounges, can in the least make up for their absence.  They are a capricious little set; there are rooms where they will not stay, and rooms where they will; but no one can ever have a good time without them.