“It _was_ a wilderness, a wilderness everywhere; the two-story house, painted brown, with red trimmings, was set in the middle of a large field; it had been untenanted for two years; the hedgerows had grown luxuriant, the grass was knee-deep; the house faced the west (the driver told me that), and the west this August afternoon was an immense field of cabbages bordered by tall trees; above it was the sky, beyond that might be anything, or everything; at the east stretched a mown field, dotted with trees, an apple-tree that looked a hundred years old near the fence, then a thick woods, over the top of which ran a line of green, low hills; among the greenness a red slanting roof was visible; at the south stretched other fields, among the trees a white house, with outhouses, a well-sweep; at the north, beyond two fields, in which cows were pasturing, in a grove, a thick, green grove, was the churchyard, with rows and rows of white stones, now and then a white or a granite monument; the brown church-tower arose above the tree-tops. And this was my wilderness for a night, with the sky, the protecting, loving sky over all, and bending down to enfold us all into its sunshine. “‘It’s pretty,’ said Elsie. “‘Yes, it is pretty. Now we must go in and go to work.’ “The opened door led into the small dining-room; small and so crowded; as my big brother said, there was a place for everything, and everything was in it. “The front parlor, back parlor, hall, all crowded; up stairs there was nothing but emptiness and roominess. “The kitchen, such a pretty kitchen, was crowded with everything, too—and a pine table, a firkin, and an up-turned, or down-turned peach basket. “I was in a whirl, an ecstasy, an enthusiasm; but as somebody remarks, nothing is done without enthusiasm; now what should I do with mine, that, and nothing else? “Suddenly, to Elsie’s great perplexity, I gave a shout and rushed out the dining-room door, and down through the tangles into the road. “I had espied two men, working men, in shirt sleeves, with coats thrown over their arms. Farmers, or farmer’s sons, probably, great, true-hearted sons of the soil, knightly fellows who were ready to— “‘Are you—do you know anybody—’ I began, breathless, and with flying hair. “They stopped and gazed at me. “‘We have just moved in. I would like things moved, and bedsteads put up, and boxes opened.’ “‘We can do it,’ said one promptly. “He had lost one eye; the other eye looked honest. “‘Yes, we’re out of the work,’ said his companion. “He had a stiff neck; he did not look quite so honest. “‘Can you come now?’ I faltered. “‘Yes, right off. Come, Jim,’ was the cheerful response. ‘All we want is to be told what to do.’ I could always tell people what to do; at home I was called the ‘manager.’