"I want to know what them men are diggin' over there in that field
for."
"They're diggin' a cellar, I s'pose, if you've got to know."
"A cellar for what?"
"A barn."
"A barn? You ain't goin' to build a barn over there where we was
goin' to have a house, father?"
The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse into the
farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard, jouncing as sturdily on
his seat as a boy.
The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she went out of
the barn across a corner of the yard to the house. The house,
standing at right angles with the great barn and a long reach of
sheds and out-buildings, was infinitesimal compared with them. It
was scarcely as commodious for people as the little boxes under
the barn eaves were for doves.
A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was looking
out of one of the house windows. She was watching three men who
were digging over in the field which bounded the yard near the
road line. She turned quietly when the woman entered.
"What are they digging for, mother?" said she. "Did he tell you?"
"They're diggin' for--a cellar for a new barn."
"Oh, mother, he ain't going to build another barn?"
"That's what he says."
A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He combed
slowly and painstakingly, arranging his brown hair in a smooth
hillock over his forehead. He did not seem to pay any attention to
the conversation.
"Sammy, did you know father was going to build a new barn?" asked
the girl.
The boy combed assiduously.
"Sammy!"
He turned, and showed a face like his father's under his smooth
crest of hair. "Yes, I s'pose I did," he said, reluctantly.
"How long have you known it?" asked his mother.
"'Bout three months, I guess."
"Why didn't you tell of it?"
"Didn't think 'twould do no good."
"I don't see what father wants another barn for," said the girl,
in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again to the window, and
stared out at the digging men in the field. Her tender, sweet face
was full of a gentle distress. Her forehead was as bald and
innocent as a baby's, with the light hair strained back from it in
a row of curl-papers. She was quite large, but her soft curves did
not look as if they covered muscles.
Her mother looked sternly at the boy. "Is he goin' to buy more
cows?" said she.
The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes.
"Sammy, I want you to tell me if he's goin' to buy more cows."
"I s'pose he is."
"How many?"
"Four, I guess."
His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and there
was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap from a nail behind
the door, took an old arithmetic from the shelf, and started for
school. He was lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of the yard
with a curious spring in the hips, that made his loose home-made
jacket tilt up in the rear.
The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that were
piled up there. Her mother came promptly out of the pantry, and
shoved her aside. "You wipe 'em," said she; "I'll wash. There's a
good many this mornin'."
The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, the girl
wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. "Mother," said she, "don't
you think it's too bad father's going to build that new barn, much
as we need a decent house to live in?"
Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. "You ain't found out yet
we're women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You ain't seen enough
of men-folks yet to. One of these days you'll find it out, an'
then you'll know that we know only what men-folks think we do, so
far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to reckon men-folks
in with Providence, an' not complain of what they do any more than
we do of the weather."
"I don't care; I don't believe George is anything like that,
anyhow," said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed pink, her lips
pouted softly, as if she were going to cry.
"You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better than
other men. You hadn't ought to judge father, though. He can't help
it, 'cause he don't look at things jest the way we do. An' we've
been pretty comfortable here, after all. The roof don't leak--
ain't never but once--that's one thing. Father's kept it shingled
right up."
"I do wish we had a parlor."
"I guess it won't hurt George Eastman any to come to see you in a
nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls don't have as good a
place as this. Nobody's ever heard me complain."
"I ain't complained either, mother."
"Well, I don't think you'd better, a good father an' a good home
as you've got. S'pose your father made you go out an' work for
your livin'? Lots of girls have to that ain't no stronger an'
better able to than you be."
Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air. She
scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. She was a
masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one living-room never
seemed to have in it any of the dust which the friction of life
with inanimate matter produces. She swept, and there seemed to be
no dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned, and one could see no
difference. She was like an artist so perfect that he has
apparently no art. To-day she got out a mixing bowl and a board,
and rolled some pies, and there was no more flour upon her than
upon her daughter who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be
married in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cambric and
embroidery. She sewed industriously while her mother cooked, her
soft milk-white hands and wrists showed whiter than her delicate
work.
"We must have the stove moved out in the shed before long," said
Mrs. Penn. "Talk about not havin' things, it's been a real
blessin' to be able to put a stove up in that shed in hot weather.
Father did one good thing when he fixed that stove-pipe out
there."
Sarah Penn's face as she rolled her pies had that expression of
meek vigor which might have characterized one of the New Testament
saints. She was making mince-pies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn,
liked them better than any other kind. She baked twice a week.
Adoniram often liked a piece of pie between meals. She hurried
this morning. It had been later than usual when she began, and she
wanted to have a pie baked for dinner. However deep a resentment
she might be forced to hold against her husband, she would never
fail in sedulous attention to his wants.
Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when it is
not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn's showed itself to-day
in flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the pies faithfully, while
across the table she could see, when she glanced up from her work,
the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul--the
digging of the cellar of the new barn in the place where Adoniram
forty years ago had promised her their new house should stand.
The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were home a few
minutes after twelve o'clock. The dinner was eaten with serious
haste. There was never much conversation at the table in the Penn
family. Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly, then
rose up and went about their work.
Sammy went back to school, taking soft, sly lopes out of the yard
like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles before school, and
feared his father would give him some chores to do. Adoniram
hastened to the door and called after him, but he was out of
sight.
"I don't see what you let him go for, mother," said he. "I wanted
him to help me unload that wood."
Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from the
wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while Nanny took down her
curl-papers and changed her dress. She was going down to the store
to buy some more embroidery and thread.
When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. "Father!" she
called.
"Well, what is it!"
"I want to see you jest a minute, father."
"I can't leave this wood nohow. I've got to git it unloaded an' go
for a load of gravel afore two o'clock. Sammy had ought to helped
me. You hadn't ought to let him go to school so early."
"I want to see you jest a minute."
"I tell ye I can't, nohow, mother."
"Father, you come here." Sarah Penn stood in the door like a
queen; she held her head as if it bore a crown; there was that
patience which makes authority royal in her voice. Adoniram went.
Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a chair.
"Sit down, father," said she; "I've got somethin' I want to say to
you."
He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked at
her with restive eyes. "Well, what is it, mother?"
"I want to know what you're buildin' that new barn for, father?"
"I ain't got nothin' to say about it."
"It can't be you think you need another barn?"
"I tell ye I ain't got nothin' to say about it, mother; an' I
ain't goin' to say nothin'."
"Be you goin' to buy more cows?"
Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.
"I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look here"--
Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood before her husband in the
humble fashion of a Scripture woman--"I'm goin' to talk real plain
to you; I never have sence I married you, but I'm goin' to now. I
ain't never complained, an' I ain't goin' to complain now, but I'm
goin' to talk plain. You see this room here, father; you look at
it well. You see there ain't no carpet on the floor, an' you see
the paper is all dirty, an' droppin' off the walls. We ain't had
no new paper on it for ten year, an' then I put it on myself, an'
it didn't cost but ninepence a roll. You see this room, father;
it's all the one I've had to work in an' eat in an' sit in sence
we was married. There ain't another woman in the whole town whose
husband ain't got half the means you have but what's got better.
It's all the room Nanny's got to have her company in; an' there
ain't one of her mates but what's got better, an' their fathers
not so able as hers is. It's all the room she'll have to be
married in. What would you have thought, father, if we had had our
weddin' in a room no better than this? I was married in my
mother's parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an' stuffed
furniture, an' a mahogany card-table. An' this is all the room my
daughter will have to be married in. Look here, father!"
Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a tragic stage.
She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny bedroom, only large
enough for a bed and bureau, with a path between. "There, father,"
said she--"there's all the room I've had to sleep in forty year.
All my children were born there--the two that died, an' the two
that's livin'. I was sick with a fever there."
She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the small,
ill-lighted pantry. "Here," said she, "is all the buttery I've
got--every place I've got for my dishes, to set away my victuals
in, an' to keep my milk-pans in. Father, I've been takin' care of
the milk of six cows in this place, an' now you're goin' to build
a new barn, an' keep more cows, an' give me more to do in it."
She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight of stairs
wound upward from it. "There, father," said she, "I want you to
look at the stairs that go up to them two unfinished chambers that
are all the places our son an' daughter have had to sleep in all
their lives. There ain't a prettier girl in town nor a more
ladylike one than Nanny, an' that's the place she has to sleep in.
It ain't so good as your horse's stall; it ain't so warm an'
tight."
Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. "Now, father,"
said she, "I want to know if you think you're doin' right an'
accordin' to what you profess. Here, when we was married, forty
year ago, you promised me faithful that we should have a new house
built in that lot over in the field before the year was out. You
said you had money enough, an' you wouldn't ask me to live in no
such place as this. It is forty year now, an' you've been makin'
more money, an' I've been savin' of it for you ever sence, an' you
ain't built no house yet. You've built sheds an' cow-houses an'
one new barn, an' now you're goin' to build another. Father, I
want to know if you think it's right. You're lodgin' your dumb
beasts better than you are your own flesh an' blood. I want to
know if you think it's right."
"I ain't got nothin' to say."
"You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father. An'
there's another thing--I ain't complained; I've got along forty
year, an' I s'pose I should forty more, if it wa'n't for that--if
we don't have another house. Nanny she can't live with us after
she's married. She'll have to go somewheres else to live away from
us, an' it don't seem as if I could have it so, noways, father.
She wa'n't ever strong. She's got considerable color, but there
wa'n't never any backbone to her. I've always took the heft of
everything off her, an' she ain't fit to keep house an' do
everything herself. She'll be all worn out inside of a year. Think
of her doin' all the washin' an' ironin' an' bakin' with them soft
white hands an' arms, an' sweepin'! I can't have it so, noways,
father."
Mrs. Penn's face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed. She had
pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she had ranged from
severity to pathos; but her opponent employed that obstinate
silence which makes eloquence futile with mocking echoes. Adoniram
arose clumsily.
"Father, ain't you got nothin' to say?" said Mrs. Penn.
"I've got to go off after that load of gravel. I can't stan' here
talkin' all day."
"Father, won't you think it over, an' have a house built there
instead of a barn?"
"I ain't got nothin' to say."
Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom. When she
came out, her eyes were red. She had a roll of unbleached cotton
cloth. She spread it out on the kitchen table, and began cutting
out some shirts for her husband. The men over in the field had a
team to help them this afternoon; she could hear their halloos.
She had a scanty pattern for the shirts; she had to plan and piece
the sleeves.
Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her
needlework. She had taken down her curl-papers, and there was a
soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her forehead; her face
was as delicately fine and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked
up, and the tender red flamed all over her face and neck.
"Mother," said she.
"What say?"
"I've been thinking--I don't see how we're goin' to have any--
wedding in this room. I'd be ashamed to have his folks come if we
didn't have anybody else."
"Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can put it on. I
guess you won't have no call to be ashamed of your belongin's."
"We might have the wedding in the new barn," said Nanny, with
gentle pettishness. "Why, mother, what makes you look so?"
Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious
expression. She turned again to her work, and spread out a pattern
carefully on the cloth. "Nothin'," said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-wheeled
dump cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman charioteer. Mrs.
Penn opened the door and stood there a minute looking out; the
halloos of the men sounded louder.
It seemed to her all through the spring months that she heard
nothing but the halloos and the noises of saws and hammers. The
new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice for this little village.
Men came on pleasant Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean
shirt bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not
speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it to her, although
sometimes, upon a return from inspecting it, he bore himself with
injured dignity.
"It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new barn,"
he said, confidentially, to Sammy one day.
Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy; he had learned
it from his father.
The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week in
July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock in on Wednesday; on
Tuesday he received a letter which changed his plans. He came in
with it early in the morning. "Sammy's been to the post-office,"
said he, "an' I've got a letter from Hiram." Hiram was Mrs. Penn's
brother, who lived in Vermont.
"Well," said Mrs. Penn, "what does he say about the folks?"
"I guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come up country
right off there's a chance to buy jest the kind of a horse I
want." He stared reflectively out of the window at the new barn.
Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the rolling-pin
into the crust, although she was very pale, and her heart beat
loudly.
"I dun' know but what I'd better go," said Adoniram. "I hate to go
off jest now, right in the midst of hayin', but the ten-acre lot's
cut, an' I guess Rufus an' the others can git along without me
three or four days. I can't get a horse round here to suit me,
nohow, an' I've got to have another for all that wood-haulin' in
the fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an' if he got wind of a good
horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go."
"I'll get out your clean shirt an' collar," said Mrs. Penn,
calmly.
She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes on the
bed in the little bedroom. She got his shaving-water and razor
ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his black
cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra
occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When he
was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of pie
and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the threshold of the
door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly
apologetic. "IF them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em into
the new barn," said he; "an' when they bring the hay up, they can
pitch it in there."
"Well," replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he had
cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back with a kind of
nervous solemnity. "I shall be back by Saturday if nothin'
happens," said he.
"Do be careful, father," returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched him out
of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression in them; her
peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and about her
baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing
nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with her steady sewing.
Her mother kept glancing at her.
"Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'?" she asked.
"A little."
Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed forehead
smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She formed a
maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlettered
thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities are the guide-posts of the
Lord to the new roads of life," she repeated in effect, and she
made up her mind to her course of action.
"S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram," she muttered once, when she was
in the pantry--"s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him if he knew of
any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't none of my
doin'. It looks like a providence." Her voice rang out quite loud
at the last.
"What you talkin' about, mother?" called Nanny.
"Nothin'."
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o 'clock it was all done.
The load of hay from the west field came slowly down the cart
track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. "Stop!" she
screamed--"stop!"
The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top of the
load, and stared at his mother.
"Stop!" she cried out again. "Don't you put the hay in that barn;
put it in the old one."
"Why, he said to put it in here," returned one of the haymakers,
wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor's son, whom Adoniram
hired by the year to help on the farm.
"Don't you put the hay in the new barn; there's room enough in the
old one, ain't there?" said Mrs. Penn.
"Room enough," returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic tones.
"Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far as room's concerned. Well, I
s'pose he changed his mind." He took hold of the horses' bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen windows were
darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into the room.
Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them to put the
hay into the new barn?" she said, wonderingly.
"It's all right," replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see if dinner
was ready.
"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as father's
gone," said his mother. "I've let the fire go out. You can have
some bread an' milk an' pie. I thought we could get along." She
set out some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie on the kitchen
table. "You'd better eat your dinner now," said she. "You might
jest as well get through with it. I want you to help me
afterward."
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was something strange
in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat anything herself.
She went into the pantry, and they heard her moving dishes while
they ate. Presently she came out with a pile of plates. She got
the clothes-basket out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny
and Sammy watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put them
in with the plates.
"What you goin' to do, mother?" inquired Nanny, in a timid voice.
A sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it were a
ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie.
"You'll see what I'm goin' to do," replied Mrs. Penn. "If you're
through, Nanny, I want you to go upstairs an' pack up your things;
an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the bed in the
bedroom."
"Oh, mother, what for?" gasped Nanny.
"You'll see."
During the next few hours a feat was performed by this simple,
pious New England mother which was equal in its way to Wolfe's
storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no more genius and
audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up
those steep precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than
for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children, to move all their
little household goods into the new barn while her husband was
away.
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions without a
murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain uncanny and
superhuman quality about all such purely original undertakings as
their mother's was to them. Nanny went back and forth with her
light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober energy.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the
Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new
barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is in a
measure a prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's barn, while he
designed it for the comfort of four-footed animals, had planned
better than he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a
glance its possibilities. Those great box-stalls, with quilts hung
before them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had
occupied for forty years, and there was a tight carriage-room. The
harness-room, with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen
of her dreams. The great middle space would make a parlor, by-and-
by, fit for a palace. Upstairs there was as much room as down.
With partitions and windows, what a house would there be! Sarah
looked at the row of stanchions before the allotted space for
cows, and reflected that she would have her front entry there.
At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the kettle
was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked almost as home-
like as the abandoned house across the yard had ever done. The
young hired man milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the
milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots of
foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before the next morning
he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's wife moving into the
new barn all over the little village. Men assembled in the store
and talked it over, women with shawls over their heads scuttled
into each other's houses before their work was done Any deviation
from the ordinary course of life in this quiet town was enough to
stop all progress in it. Everybody paused to look at the staid,
independent figure on the side track. There was a difference of
opinion with regard to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a
lawless and rebellious spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon, and
she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She looked up
and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went on with
her work. She did not invite him in. The saintly expression of her
face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush over it.
The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked, She handled
the peas as if they were bullets. At last she looked up, and her
eyes showed the spirit that her meek front had covered for a
lifetime.
"There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey," said she. "I've thought
it all over an' over, an' I believe I'm doin' what's right. I've
made it the subject of prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the Lord
an' Adoniram. There ain't no call for nobody else to worry about
it."
"Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer,
and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn," said the
minister, helplessly. His thin gray-bearded face was pathetic. He
was a sickly man; his youthful confidence had cooled; he had to
scourge himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly
as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the smart.
"I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for our
forefathers to come over from the old country 'cause they didn't
have what belonged to 'em," said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn
threshold might have been Plymouth Rock from her bearing. "I don't
doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey," said she, "but there are things
people hadn't ought to interfere with. I've been a member of the
church for over forty year. I've got my own mind an' my own feet,
an' I'm goin' to think my own thoughts an' go my own ways, an'
nobody but the Lord is goin' to dictate to me unless I've a mind
to have him. Won't you come in an' set down? How is Mis' Hersey?"
"She is well, I thank you," replied the minister. He added some
more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated.
He could expound the intricacies of every character study in the
Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers and all
historical innovators, but Sarah Penn was beyond him. He could
deal with primal cases, but parallel ones worsted him. But, after
all, although it was aside from his province, he wondered more how
Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than how the Lord would.
Everybody shared the wonder. When Adoniram's four new cows
arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put in the old barn, the other
in the house shed where the cooking-stove had stood. That added to
the excitement. It was whispered that all four cows were domiciled
in the house.
Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected home, there
was a knot of men in the road near the new barn. The hired man had
milked, but he still hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had
supper all ready. There were brown-bread and baked beans and a
custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram loved on a Saturday
night. She had on a clean calico, and she bore herself
imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close at her heels. Their eyes
were large, and Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still there was
to them more pleasant excitement than anything else. An inborn
confidence in their mother over their father asserted itself.
Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. "There he is," he
announced, in an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped around the
casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The children watched
Adoniram leave the new horse standing in the drive while he went
to the house door. It was fastened. Then he went around to the
shed. That door was seldom locked, even when the family was away.
The thought how her father would be confronted by the cow flashed
upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her throat. Adoniram
emerged from the shed and stood looking about in a dazed fashion.
His lips moved; he was saying something, but they could not hear
what it was. The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old
barn, but nobody saw him.
Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him across the
yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close to their mother.
The barn doors rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the
long mild face of the great Canadian farm horse looking over his
shoulder.
Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly forward,
and stood in front of her.
Adoniram stared at the group. "What on airth you all down here
for?" said he. "What's the matter over to the house!"
"We've come here to live, father," said Sammy. His shrill voice
quavered out bravely.
"What"--Adoniram sniffed--"what is it smells like cookin'?" said
he. He stepped forward and looked in the open door of the harness-
room. Then he turned to his wife. His old bristling face was pale
and frightened. "What on airth does this mean, mother?" he gasped.
"You come in here, father," said Sarah. She led the way into the
harness-room and shut the door. "Now, father," said she, "you
needn't be scared. I ain't crazy. There ain't nothin' to be upset
over. But we've come here to live, an' we're goin' to live here.
We've got jest as good a right here as new horses an' cows. The
house wa'n't fit for us to live in any longer, an' I made up my
mind I wa'n't goin' to stay there. I've done my duty by you forty
year, an' I'm goin' to do it now; but I'm goin' to live here.
You've got to put in some windows and partitions; an' you'll have
to buy some furniture."
"Why, mother!" the old man gasped.
"You'd better take your coat off an' get washed--there's the wash-
basin--an' then we'll have supper."
"Why, mother!"
Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the old barn.
The old man saw him, and shook his head speechlessly. He tried to
take off his coat, but his arms seemed to lack the power. His wife
helped him. She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a
piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and smoothed his thin
gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the beans, hot bread,
and tea on the table. Sammy came in, and the family drew up.
Adoniram sat looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited.
"Ain't you goin' to ask a blessin', father!" said Sarah.
And the old man bent his head and mumbled.
All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and stared
furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home food tasted good
to him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy to be affected
by his mind. But after supper he went out, and sat down on the
step of the smaller door at the right of the barn, through which
he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah
designed for her front house door, and he leaned his head on his
hands.
After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk-pans
washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was deepening. There
was a clear green glow in the sky. Before them stretched the
smooth level of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-stacks
like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm and
sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of peace.
Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin, sinewy
shoulders. "Father!"
The old man's shoulders heaved: he was weeping.
"Why, don't do so, father," said Sarah.
"I'll--put up the--partitions, an'--everything you--want, mother."
Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by her own
triumph.
Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resistance,
and went down the instant the right besieging tools were used.
"Why, mother," he said, hoarsely, "I hadn't no idee you was so set
on't as all this comes to."