All was quiet within, and we went upstairs with the lantern.
Everything seemed clean and in order, and it is impossible to convey any idea of the element of comfort which seemed to pervade the house, as we quietly made our way upstairs, in our wet boots and heavy, damp clothes.
The articles we wanted were in a closet, and while I was ****** a bundle of them, Euphemia went to look for Pomona. She soon returned, walking softly.
"She's sound asleep," said she, "and I didn't think there was any need of waking her. We'll send word by John that we've been here.
And oh! you can't imagine how snug and happy she did look, lying there in her comfortable bed, in that nice, airy room. I'll tell you what it is, if it wasn't for the neighbors, and especially the Atkinsons, I wouldn't go back one step.""Well," said I, "I don't know that I care so particularly about it, myself. But I suppose I couldn't stay here and leave all Thompson's things out there to take care of themselves.""Oh no!" said Euphemia. "And we're not going to back down. Are you ready?"On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our own room. I could not help holding up the lantern to look in.
There was the bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; there were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the little table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face downward upon it; there were my slippers; there was--"Come!" said Euphemia, "I can't bear to look in there. It's like a dead child."And so we hurried out into the night and the rain. We stopped at the wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obliged to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and the lantern.
Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us, but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of derision, I cannot say.
We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds apparently dry. But I did not sleep well. I could not help thinking that it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, and I worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt the dampness striking through.
To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and Ithought I would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up the river and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on the shore.
But what could we do about the tent? It would be impossible to go away and leave that, with its contents, for a whole day.
When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the difficulty in the way. This good man, who always had a keen scent for any advantage to himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and volunteered to send his wife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we were away.
The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere, and she would stay all day for fifty cents.
This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with three of her children,--all too young to leave behind, she said,--and took charge of the camp.
Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when we returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs. Old John had our supper ready for us.
She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not begrudge it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook and keep the place in order.
"However," said Euphemia, on second thoughts, "you may come on Saturday and clean up generally."The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the gun. As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp, which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could kill, and so I started off up the river-road.
I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in a wagon.
