The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the bedstead filled its appointed place.  The remaining furniture followed as fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold.  We also deposited in the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.

At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the roof of the cottage, and remarked: 

“It’s none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things spiled.  I’d watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained.”

I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which was presented by Sophronia’s outstretched arms.

“Oh, Pierre!” she exclaimed; “at last we are in our own home!  No uncongenial spirits about us—­no one to molest or annoy—­no unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work of her free, divine hands.”

A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice which accompanied it remarked: 

“Didn’t they bring in any stove, ma’am?”

Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered: 

“No!” looking very blank at the same time.

“Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?” asked the girl.

“In the range, of course,” said Sophronia.

Our domestic’s next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what was her nationality: 

“An’ do ye think that I’d ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the house?  Dhivil a bit!”

“Never mind, dear,” said I soothingly; “I’m an old soldier; I’ll make a fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot biscuit as you ever tasted.  And I’ll order a stove the first thing in the morning.”

Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased.  Then I asked the domestic to get some water while I should make the fire.  The honest daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor cistern on the premises.

Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia’s hearing, that we were a couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent had told the truth.  But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked me for my want of faith in the agent.

“Pierre,” said she, “it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with falsehood upon the word of a menial.  I know that agent tells the truth, for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to the Presbyterian Church.”

Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself.  But if either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not find the slightest outward evidence of it.  Finally, to be thorough, I paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.