"Not with my money, or Joe Chandler's, either," Rebecca declared, firmly. "Not as Joe'd ask me to marry him now. He'd as soon think o' marryin' his grandmother."
"Then what's the use o' goin' back any further. We might's well stop the machine right now, so's not to have so many more turns to wind up again."
"Fiddlesticks!" Rebecca exclaimed. "Don't you fret about that! Don't I tell ye it's folderol! Tell ye what ye can do, though. Open them shutters out there an' let in some sunlight. I've more'n half a mind to open a window, too. Thet smell o' rum in there makes me sick."
"We'd freeze to death in a minute if we tried it," said Phœbe, as she entered the main room.
She went to each of the four windows and opened all the shutters, avoiding in the meantime even a glance at the middle of the room. She did not forget the date indicator, however.
"Merry Christmas!" she cried, with a little laugh. "It's Christmas-day, 1886, Rebecca."
The engine-room door was open. Perhaps it was a sign of her returning youth, but the fact is her fingers itched to get at those bright, tempting brass and steel handles. Droop had explained their uses and she felt sure she could manage the machinery. What a delightful thing it would be to feel the Panchronicon obeying her hand!
"Really, Rebecca," she exclaimed, "if we're not going back to '76 after all, I think it's a dreadful waste of time for us to be throwin' away six months every hour this way."
"'Twon't be long," Rebecca replied, as she turned the hot water into her dishpan. "You come in here an' help wash these dishes, an' ef I don't soon wake up that mis'able—" She did not trust herself further, but tightly compressed her lips and confined her rising choler.
"Why, Rebecca Wise," said Phœbe, "you know it will be hours before that man's got sense enough to run this machine. I'm goin' to stop it myself, right now."