Two beds and a kitchen stove had been set up on the bare floors.  On a pine table in the cramped kitchen were a few dishes, tins and pails, a loaf of bread, a ham, some coffee and sugar.  Mrs. Lively sat down in the kitchen on a wooden chair with a feeling of utter desolation in her heart.  Napoleon looked longingly at the loaf of bread.  The doctor flew round in a way that would have cheered anybody not foregone to despondency.  He brought in some cobs from the yard and kindled a fire in the stove, filled the tea-kettle, and put some slices of ham to fry and some coffee to boil.

“Go up stairs, dear,” he said to Mrs. Lively, “and lie down while I get supper ready.  You are tired:  I feel as smart as a new whip.  I haven’t been a soldier for nothing:  I’ll give you some of the best coffee you ever drank.  Nappy, run across the street and see if you can’t get a cup of milk:  I see the people have a cow.  Won’t you lie down?” he continued to his wife.  She looked so ineffably wretched that his heart ached for her.

“I think I shall feel better if I do something,” she said drearily; “but,” she continued, firing with something of her old spirit, “how in the world is anybody to do anything here?  Not even a dishcloth!”

“Oh, never mind,” laughed the doctor, piling the dusty dishes in a pan for washing, “we’ll just set the crockery up in this cullender to drain dry.”

“We’d better turn hermits, go and winter in a cave, and be done with it.  How are we ever to live?”

“Why, my dear, I never felt so plucky in my life.  We mustn’t show the white feather:  we must prove ourselves worthy of Chicago.  Come, now, we’ll work to get back to Chicago.  We can live economically here, and when we get a little ahead we can start again in Chicago.  Only think of these eight rooms and an acre of ground, three-fourths in grapes, for six dollars a month!  Ain’t it inspiriting?  I’ve seen you at picnics eating with your fingers, drinking from a leaf-cup, making all kinds of shifts and enjoying all the straits.  Now we can play picnicking here—­play that we are camping out, and that one of these days, when we’ve bagged our game, we’re going home to Chicago.  Now, we’ll set the table;” and he began moving the dishes, pans and bundles off the pine table on to chairs and the floor.

“Isn’t this sweet,” said Mrs. Lively, “eating in the kitchen and without a tablecloth?”

“We’ll have a dining-room to-morrow, and a tablecloth,” said the doctor cheerfully.

Thanks to his friend Harrison’s letters, Dr. Lively readily obtained credit for imperative family necessities.  If ever anybody merited success as a cheerful worker, it was our doctor.  He did the work of ever-so-many men, and almost of one woman.  Pray don’t despise him when I tell you that he kneaded the bread, to save Mrs. Lively’s back; that he did most of the family washing—­that is, he did the rubbing, the wringing, the lifting, the hanging out—­and once a week he scrubbed.