An hour later, she drove out of the yard on her way to the creamery. With activity, ambition had returned; she began even to hope that her uncle might be persuaded to let her stay. The sun had risen clear and bright, and all the cheerfulness of Sarah's disposition responded to it. She wondered, as she drove along the frozen roads, whether it would not be possible to add a third cow to her dairy. And she could keep more chickens. Her father had taught her how to look after them,--their hens always laid better than Aunt Eliza's. And if the chickens did well, and if Ebert would put out the crops for her,--poor Sarah meant to go ahead just as though her uncle had not said that he would farm,--and if the children were allowed to come back, and then if William came home--She knew in the bottom of her heart that they were air castles, but she found them pleasant abiding-places. The men, waiting in line at the creamery, called to her kindly, all but Jacob Kalb, whose wagon was third from the delivery door. Henry Ebert was at that moment chirruping to his horse to move into place before the platform. "Sarah!" he called. "Wait once. I move a little piece back, and you can come in first." Jacob Kalb approved of no such chivalrous impulses. "Those that come first should have first place," he growled. "I can't wait all day." But the men only laughed. None of them liked Jacob Kalb. Sarah swung Dan into line before the door. A week before, she would have called out,-- "Jacob Calf, He likes to _blaff_," "blaff" being the Pennsylvania German word for bark, but now she sternly checked her poetic fancies. Sarah had made up her mind to be very wise and politic. But she could not repress a smile of satisfaction over her brilliant combination of Pennsylvania German and English. Jacob saw the smile and watched her, scowling. It irritated him to see her there, businesslike and cheerful, and it did not give him any pleasure to hear a neighbor call to her that he would stop for her milk-can the next morning. Sarah shouted back her thanks. Ebert consented willingly to put out the crops. He had a great admiration for smart little Sarah. "Next week I begin to plough," he promised. Then Sarah slapped the reins on Dan's back and was off. There was plenty to do at home: the house to put in order, several hens to set, and some baking to be done. As she drew near the farm, she became apprehensive. Suppose her Uncle Daniel should have taken possession while she was away! She had locked the door, but the fastenings of the windows were not very secure. And to whom, in such a case, should she go? Not to any of the farmers round about: they were poor and had many children. She could not take Uncle Daniel's charity,--she knew that, no matter how hard she worked, he would still consider it charity,--and she could not live with Aunt Mena, who had the twins. She thought vaguely of going with her trouble to Miss Miflin. But Miss Miflin had no home.