"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?"