“A miserable piece of furniture!” said I.

“It is, indeed,” returned Mrs. Jones.  “To buy an article like this, is little better than throwing money into the street.”

For a month the disfigured sofa remained in the parlor, a perfect eye-sore, when another piece of the veneering sloughed off, and one of the feet became loose.  It was then sent to a cabinet maker for repair; and cost for removing and mending just five dollars.

Not long after this, the bureau had to take a like journey, for it had, strangely enough, fallen into sudden dilapidation.  All the locks were out of order, half the knobs were off, there was not a drawer that didn’t require the most accurate balancing of forces in order to get it shut after it was once open, and it showed premonitory symptoms of shedding its skin like a snake.  A five dollar bill was expended in putting this into something like usable order and respectable aspect.  By this time a new set of castors was needed for the maple four-poster, which was obtained at the expense of two dollars.  Moreover, the head-board to said four-poster, which, from its exceeding ugliness, had, from the first, been a terrible eye-sore to Mrs. Jones, as well as to myself, was, about this period, removed, and one of more sightly appearance substituted, at the additional charge of six dollars.  No tester frame had accompanied the cheap bedstead at its original purchase, and now my wife wished to have one, and also a light curtain above and valance below.  All these, with trimmings, etc., to match, cost the round sum of ten dollars.

“It looks very neat,” said Mrs. Jones, after her curtains were up.

“It does, indeed,” said I.

“Still,” returned Mrs. Jones, “I would much rather have had a handsome mahogany French bedstead.”

“So would I,” was my answer.  “But you know they cost some thirty dollars, and we paid but sixteen for this.”

“Sixteen!” said my wife, turning quickly toward me.  “It cost more than that.”

“Oh, no.  I have the bill in my desk,” was my confident answer.

“Sixteen was originally paid, I know,” said Mrs. Jones.  “But then, remember, what it has cost since.  Two dollars for castors, six for a new head-board, and ten for tester and curtains.  Thirty-four dollars in all; when a very handsome French bedstead, of good workmanship, can be bought for thirty dollars.”

I must own that I was taken somewhat aback by this array of figures “that don’t lie.”

“And for twenty dollars we could have bought a neat, well made dressing-bureau, at Moore and Campion’s, that would have lasted for twice as many years, and always looked in credit.”

“But ours, you know, only cost ten,” said I.

“The bureau, such as it is, cost ten, and the glass two.  Add five that we have already paid for repairs, and the four that our maple bedstead has cost above the price of a handsome French, one, and we will have the sum of twenty-one dollars,—­enough to purchase as handsome a dressing-bureau as I would ask.  So you see.  Mr. Jones, that our cheap furniture is not going to turn out so cheap after all.  And as for looks, why no one can say there is much to brag of.”