He took the troubling bills again.

“Yo’ sounds raght, Mahstah Majah—­you suttinly do sound raght!  Ah gaiss Ah got a’ raise ten hund’ed thousan’ pulletts an mo’.”

For three more days the juggernaut of Sam Murdock’s dray hauled heavy furniture over the prostrate spirit of Clem.  Faster than he could unpack the stuff was it unpiled at his door.  And it was poor stuff, moreover, in the opinion of Little Arcady.  Clem’s history was known, of course, and during these busy days the town made it a point to pass his door in friendly curiosity about the belongings of his mistress.  When these could not be satisfactorily appraised from the yard, they sauntered up to the porch and surveyed Clem in the front room at his work of unpacking and cleaning.  Often, indeed, some kindly disposed observer with time to spare would lend a hand in freeing some heavy bit of mahogany from its crate or wrappings.

The public opinion, thus advantageously formed, was for once unanimous.  The house overflowed with worthless and unbeautiful junk.  To Little Arcady this was a grievous disappointment.  It had expected elegance, for Clem had been wont to enlarge upon the splendors of his former home.  When it was finally known that the long-vaunted furnishings were coming, the town had prepared to be dazzled by sets of black walnut, ornate with gilt lines, by patent rockers done in plush, by fashionable sofas, gay with upholstery of flowered ingrain, by bedroom sets of ash, stencilled adroitly with pink-and-blue flowers, or set with veneered panels of burl; by writing-desks of maple and music-stands of cherry with many spindles and frettings, by sideboards of finest new oak with brass handles and mirrors in the backs.

The town had anticipated, in short, up to its own high and difficult standards.  And along had come a ruck of stuff that was dark and dingy and old-fashioned; awkward articles with a vast dull expanse of mahogany, ending in clumsy claw feet; spindle-legged tables inlaid with white wood; old-fashioned mirrors in scarred gilt frames; awkward-looking highboys and the plainest of sofas and lounges.  The chief sideboard boasted not the tiniest bit of brass; even the handles were of cheap glass, and Clem had set candle-sticks upon it that were nothing but pewter.

Where Little Arcady had looked for the best Brussels carpets, there came only dull-colored rugs of a most aged and depressing lack of gayety.  As for silver, we knew the worst when Aunt Delia McCormick declared, “They haven’t even a swinging ice-pitcher—­nothing but thin battered old stuff that was made in the year one!”

Aunt Delia had quite the newest and most fashionable furniture in town; her parlor was a feast of color for any eye, and her fine hardwood sideboard alone had cost twenty-two dollars, so she spoke as one having authority.