“When I go down after the hot water, I’ll hang these things on the line,” said Miss Mehitable, briskly.  “They can’t get any dustier on the ground than they are now.”

The curtains were so frail that they fell apart in Miss Hitty’s hands.  “You can make her some new ones, Minty,” she said.  “She can get some muslin at Mis’ Allen’s, and you can sew on curtains for a while instead of quilts.  It’ll be a change.”

None too carefully, Miss Mehitable tore up the rag carpet and threw it out of the window, sneezing violently.  “There’s considerable less dirt here already than there was when we come,” she continued, “though we ain’t done any real cleaning yet.  She can’t never put that carpet down again, it’s too weak.  We’ll get a bucket of paint and paint the floors.  I guess Sarah Grey had plenty of rugs.  She’s got a lot of rag carpeting put away in the attic if the moths ain’t ate it, and, now that I think of it, I believe she packed it into the cedar chest.  Anyway I advised her to.  ‘It’ll come handy,’ I told her, ’for Evelina, if you don’t live to use it yourself.’  So if the moths ain’t got the good of it, there’s carpet that can be made into rugs with some fringe on the ends.  I always did like the smell of fresh paint, anyhow.  There’s nothin’ you can put into a house that’ll make it smell as fresh and clean as paint.  Varnish is good, too, but it’s more expensive.  I’ll go down now, and get the hot water and the ladder.  I reckon she’s through with her breakfast by this time.”

Miss Evelina had finished her breakfast, as the empty tray proved.  She sat listlessly in her chair and the water on the stove was boiling over.

“My sakes, Evelina,” cried Miss Hitty, sharply, “I should think you’d—­I should think you’d hear the water fallin’ on the stove,” she concluded, lamely.  It was impossible to scold her as she would have scolded Araminta.

“I’m goin’ out now to put things on the line,” continued Miss Hitty.  “When I get Minty started to cleanin’, I’ll come down and beat.”

Miss Evelina made no response.  She watched her brisk neighbour wearily, without interest, as she hurried about the yard, dragging mattresses into the sunlight, hanging musty bedding on the line, and carrying the worn curtains to the mountain of rubbish which the Piper had reared in front of the house.

“That creeter with the red feather can clean the yard if he’s a mind to,” mused Miss Hitty, who was fully conversant with the Piper’s work, “but he can’t clean the house.  I’m going to do that myself.”

She went in and was presently in her element.  The smell of yellow soap was as sweet incense in the nostrils of Miss Hitty, and the sound of the scrubbing brush was melodious in her ears.  She brushed down the walls with a flannel cloth tied over a broom, washed the windows, scrubbed every inch of the woodwork, and prepared the floor for its destined coat of paint.