"We want you to bring no milk," I cried, now quite angry. "I want you to go down to the station, and tell the driver of the express-wagon to come here immediately. Do you understand? Immediately."The boy declared he understood, and started off quite willingly.
We did not prefer to have the express-wagon, for it was too public a conveyance, and, besides, old John knew exactly how to do what was required. But we need not have troubled ourselves. The express-wagon did not come.
When it became dark, we saw that we could not leave that night.
Even if a wagon did come, it would not be safe to drive over the fields in the darkness. And we could not go away and leave the camp-equipage. I proposed that Euphemia should go up to the house, while I remained in camp. But she declined. We would keep together, whatever happened, she said.
We unpacked our cooking-utensils and provisions, and had supper.
There was no milk for our coffee, but we did not care. The evening did not pass gayly. We were annoyed by the conduct of old John and the express-boy, though, perhaps, it was not their fault. I had given them no notice that I should need them.
And we were greatly troubled at the continuance of the secrecy and subterfuge which now had become really necessary, if we did not wish to hurt our friends' feelings.
The first thing that I thought of, when I opened my eyes in the morning, was the fact that we would have to stay there all day, for we could not move on Sunday.
But Euphemia did not agree with me. After breakfast (we found that the water and the milk had been brought very early, before we were up) she stated that she did not intend to be treated in this way.
She was going up to old John's house herself; and away she went.
In less than half an hour, she returned, followed by old John and his wife, both looking much as if they had been whipped.
"These people," said she, "have entered into a conspiracy against us. I have questioned them thoroughly, and have made them answer me. The horse was at home yesterday, and the boy did not go after the express-wagon. They thought that if they could keep us here, until our company had gone, we would stay as long as we originally intended, and they would continue to make money out of us. But they are mistaken. We are going home immediately."At this point I could not help thinking that Euphemia might have consulted me in regard to her determination, but she was very much in earnest, and I would not have any discussion before these people.
"Now, listen!" said Euphemia, addressing the down-cast couple, "we are going home, and you two are to stay here all this day and to-night, and take care of these things. You can't work to-day, and you can shut up your house, and bring your whole family here if you choose. We will pay you for the service,--although you do not deserve a cent,--and we will leave enough here for you to eat. You must bring your own sheets and pillowcases, and stay here until we see you on Monday morning."Old John and his wife agreed to this plan with the greatest alacrity, apparently well pleased to get off so easily; and, having locked up the smaller articles of camp-furniture, we filled a valise with our personal baggage and started off home.
Our house and grounds never looked prettier than they did that morning, as we stood at the gate. Lord Edward barked a welcome from his shed, and before we reached the door, Pomona came running out, her face radiant.
"I'm awful glad to see you back," she said; "though I'd never have said so while you was in camp."I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growing splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was in first-rate order, and there were two broods of little yellow puffy chicks.
Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures, one by one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call them tootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona, and soon afterward by Euphemia.
The cow was all right.
"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look exactly like it ought to, yet, and the skim-milk I didn't know what to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day, and was real mad once because I had given a lot of it to the dog, and couldn't let him have but a pint.""He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to the house. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk."We laughed, and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home.
"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually forgotten them.
"Oh! they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off right after breakfast."We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dear home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-doors we rushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden.
Everything now seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room to room, and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home we had.
We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all about the Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife was training to be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia was summoned to a consultation in the kitchen.
Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as the state of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and then we sat down to the table and began to eat slowly. But they did not come. We finished our meal, and they were still absent.
We now became quite anxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we should go and look for them.
We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river.
