Sarah smiled. "I don't know and care less. He'll make trouble if he can,
but I don't see how he can. He agreed to have the Deacon do the
dividin', and he'll have to stand by it so far as I can see."
Mrs. Turner looked dubious. "Well, you know Ike Harkey. He looks as
though sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth, but I tell you I'd hate to have
dealin's with him."
Turner broke in: "Well, we must be movin'. I s'pose you'll move right
in?"
"Yes. Just as soon's as this thing's settled."
"Well, good-by. Come up."
"You come down."
Sarah was a heavy, good-natured woman, a widow with "a raft of
children." Probably for that reason her uncle had left her the house,
which was large and comfortable. As she stood looking down the road, one
of the girls came out to the gate. She was a plump, strong creature, a
neighbor's girl who had volunteered to help.
"Anybody coming?"
"Yes. I guess--no, it's going the other way. Ain't it a nice day?"
That was as far as she could carry the utterance of her feeling, but all
the morning she had felt the wonderful power of the air. The sun had
risen incredibly warm. The wind was in the south, and the crackling,
booming roar of ice in the ponds and along the river was like winter
letting go its iron grip upon the land. Even the old cows shook their
horns, and made comical attempts to frisk with the yearlings. Sarah knew
it was foolish, but she felt like a girl that morning--and Bill was
coming up the road.
In the midst of the joy of the spring day stood the house, desolate and
empty, out of which its owner had been carried to a bed in the cold,
clinging clay of the little burying-ground.
The girls and Sarah worked swiftly, brushing, cleaning, setting aside,
giving little thought to even the beauty of the morning, which entered
their blood unconsciously.
"Well, how goes it?" asked a quick, jovial voice.
The girls gave screams of affected fright.
"Why, Deacon! You nearly scared the life out of us."
Deacon Williams was always gallant.
"I didn't know I was given to scaring the ladies," he said. "Well, who's
here?"
"Nobody but us so far."
"Hain't seen nothing o' Harkey?"
"Not a thing. He sent word he'd be on hand, though."
"M--, well, we've got the machinery invoiced. Guess I'll look around and
kind o' get the household things in my mind's eye," said the Deacon,
taking on the air of a public functionary.
"All right. We'll have everything ready here in a few minutes."
They returned to work, dusting and scrubbing. The girls with their
banter put death into the background as an obscure and infrequent
incident of old age.
Sarah again studied the road down the Coolly.
"Well there! I see a team coming up the Coolly now; wonder if it's
Emmy."
"Looks more like Bill Gray's team," said one of the girls, looking slyly
at Sarah, who grew very red.
"Oh, you're too sharp, ain't you?"
It was perfectly ridiculous (to the young people) to see these
middle-aged lovers courting like sixteen-year-olds, and they had no
mercy on either Bill or Sarah.
Bill drove up in leisurely way, his horses steaming, his wagon-wheels
loaded with mud. Mrs. Gray was with him, her jolly face shining like the
morning sun.
"Hello, folkses, are you all here?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Gray," said the Deacon, approaching to help her out.
"Hello, Bill, nice morning."
Bill looked at Sarah for a moment. "Bully good," he said, leaving his
mother to scramble down the wagon-wheel alone--at least so far as he was
concerned, but the Deacon stood below courageously.
Mrs. Gray cried out in her loud good humor: "Look out, Deacon, don't git
too near me--if I should fall on you there wouldn't be a grease spot
left. _There!_ I'm all right now," she said, having reached ground
without accident. She shook her dress and looked briskly around. "Wal,
what you done, anyway? Emmy's folks come yet?"
"No, but I guess that's them comin' now. I hope Ike won't come, though."