"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?"