By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "The House Beautiful," Etc.

Comfort is a thing quite apart from fashion. So it is easier to indicate the road which leads to the House Comfortable than it was to point out details in the House Beautiful. We most of us agree about the essentials required for real comfort: chairs upon which you can sit fearlessly; beds which rest and do not bruise; arms that support without cramping; pokers that bend not; strong tables and sharp knives, these are a sample of the things I mean. But true comfort depends on more than surface surroundings. It is indissolubly linked with attention to detail. The houses to which guests return time after time is the one in which soap is never absent from its tray, and where pillows are not only covered with frilled slips, but also stuffed with down and interlined with soft covering in place of waxed ticking.

I would say, first of all, that the House Comfortable must stand in a sunny situation. This ensures warmth and light, without which our bodies are ill-nourished and miserable. "Where the sun never comes the doctor does" is a much-to-be-quoted proverb. We cannot all live exactly where we like. Circumstances of business, and means, generally determine locality. But common-sense must guide us in the selection of our houses. If we would be really comfortable, we must live in light, dry, airy, and clean homes. Never take a house on the sole recommendation of its pretty appearance. To have a really beautiful house we must first see that it is essentially built for comfort. The really useful and good is generally ornamental, for it possesses the realistic beauty of fitness. A north and south aspect for the chief sitting rooms, with east and west windows, secures both sunshine and shade. We want afternoon coolness as well as morning light. If our apartment looks towards the sun rising, heavy curtains should be ready to draw when east wind rages. A stick to effect this noiselessly is a small boon much appreciated. If our casement faces the golden gates of the west, no such protection is called for. But all windows should have double blinds—white outside, to absorb heat, and dark inside, to veil the sun when necessary. The comfort of lying in bed, facing a dark green blind can only be estimated by those who have reluctantly been disturbed by the too early shafts of the god Phoebus.

There should be a triple water supply in the House Comfortable; ewers always filled from the soft-water pump. Every well and tank should be tested ere we take up residence. Pure water, and plenty of it, is essential to the health (and therefore comfort) of every household. It should be perfectly clear and bright, and free from taste or smell. Yet impurity may lurk even in the most sparkling water. Therefore science must decide as to its desirability. If only iron or lime water is procurable, jars of lump ammonia, or a bottle of cloudy liquid ammonia, a bag of oatmeal or a bundle of bran should lie on every washstand. The hot-water boiler not only supplies unlimited baths, but may be devised to heat the house. In every Canadian home a stove in the cellar warms the rooms above by means of drums and fans. We might do much the same in England with our hot-water pipes. These should certainly run through the linen-press and clothes cupboards, and terminate in bathroom spirals. On these, towels and rough sheets could be dried and aired. A face cloth always warm is one of the luxuries in our House Comfortable.

After sanitation, ventilation takes its place in the home. How to secure a constant supply of fresh air is a question which demands most serious consideration. In ages past, houses were unintentionally ventilated by the ill-fitting doors and window-frames, wide chimneys, and open fire-places. But in our modern buildings comfort is secured by almost air-tight doors and windows. Ventilators at the top of such are delightful and necessary for real comfort, or a Queen Anne casement may have a swing in its upper frame. It is not always easy, however, to secure exemption from draught in our modern mansions. When the brick-and-mortar fiend has placed door, window, and fireplace exactly opposite each other, screens must be judiciously used. A brass rod from which hangs a curtain, screwed into the door jamb and suspended by a tiny chain from the ceiling, is a good thing, or an ordinary portiÈre may be allowed. The former plan, however, enables us to keep the door open without feeling a wind.

Padded stair-carpets secure noiseless ascent in the House Comfortable. Cork mats by the big bath are welcome to bare feet. Many cupboards are a necessity. A place for everything and everything in its place is one of the initial rules for everyone's comfort. It is also Divine law. Hanging presses, medicine cupboards, butler's pantry, housemaid's closets, keep dresses from dust, poisons from the unwary, silver and glass intact, and brushes unworn.

The House Comfortable must not be over-servanted. Neither must it be undermanned. Of the two evils, the latter is preferable, as the mistress herself then looks after the minutiÆ of her house. With all deference to Matthew Prior, comfort does not flow on a line with ignorance. It requires a cultivated intelligence to provide such in our homes.

Education has done much for us on this point. How not to do it in the House Comfortable is exemplified by the abodes of our forefathers. Going over Beaumaris Castle the other day, I noted the small apertures for exit; the high caverns of chimneys; the windows of horn; the crooked stairs. Nowadays we find stoves and slow combustion grates quite a necessity for comfort—whilst lofty ceilings, broad staircases, and wide windows can be quite as picturesque, and are far more to be desired.

The dictionary definition of the word "comfort" implies enlivenment and capability for dispensing bodily ease. For this, moral qualities are as necessary as well-planned, well-equipped houses.

Punctuality, for instance, is an ingredient required to secure a comfortable home.

When breakfast and dinner are movable feasts, served up at the whim of a lie-a-bed or a gad-about, they can only be make-believes, after all. Cold coffee is unpalatable even when partaken of in a sunny room. Whitey-brown sausages are unappetising unless piping from the pot. Yet this—like all other virtues—may be strained too far. Nothing is more uncomfortable than to feel no latitude is allowed to a weary guest, or to find one's host at marmalade three minutes after the time appointed for the disappearance of a savoury. Courtesy in this must be our rule. Neatness is another necessity. No house can be really comfortable that is littered with papers, or in which boots lie in the drawing-room—yet finickiness in arrangement makes the home unbearable. The most uncomfortable visit I ever paid was to the most scientifically correct house. Chairs were not allowed to touch the wall-paper; footstools never shifted. A towel for wiping down the varnish of the bath was provided, and—I was made miserable! By all means keep paint and paper in as much primitive purity as possible, but let unobtrusive service guard these points.

Much more could I discourse of the House Comfortable, but space forbids. Let me only remind you that the veriest cottage—plenished with wisdom and lovingly provided—may fulfil all its conditions just as well as the most luxurious castle.

Told in Sunshine Room.]