And one of the carts came again, and in their hurry the men set the furniture down anywhere.  Elizabeth Eliza was hoping to make a little place in the dining-room where they might have their supper and go home to sleep.  But she looked out, and there were the carters bringing the bedsteads, and proceeding to carry them upstairs.

In despair Elizabeth Eliza went back to the old house.  If she had been there she might have prevented this.  She found Mrs. Peterkin in an agony about the entry oil-cloth.  It had been made in the house, and how could it be taken out of the house?  Agamemnon made measurements; it certainly could not go out of the front door!  He suggested it might be left till the house was pulled down, when it could easily be moved out of one side.  But Elizabeth Eliza reminded him that the whole house was to be moved without being taken apart.  Perhaps it could be cut in strips narrow enough to go out.  One of the men loading the remaining cart disposed of the question by coming in and rolling up the oil-cloth and carrying it off on top of his wagon.

Elizabeth Eliza felt she must hurry back to the new house.  But what should they do?—­no beds here, no carpets there!  The dining-room table and sideboard were at the other house, the plates and forks and spoons here.  In vain she looked at her programme.  It was all reversed, everything was misplaced.  Mr. Peterkin would suppose they were to eat there and sleep here, and what had become of the little boys?

Meanwhile, the man with the first cart had returned.  They fell to packing the dining-room china.  They were up in the attic, they were down in the cellar.  Even one of them suggested to take the tacks out of the parlor carpets, as they should want to take them next.  Mrs. Peterkin sunk upon a kitchen chair.

“Oh, I wish we had decided to stay and be moved in the house!” she exclaimed.

Solomon John urged his mother to go to the new house, for Mr. Peterkin would be there for his “quiet hour.”  And when the carters at last appeared carrying the parlor carpets on their shoulders she sighed and said, “There is nothing left,” and meekly consented to be led away.

They reached the new house to find Mr. Peterkin sitting calmly in a rocking-chair on the piazza, watching the oxen coming into the opposite barn.  He was waiting for the keys, which Solomon John had taken back with him.  The little boys were in a horse-chestnut tree, at the side of the house.

Agamemnon opened the door.  The passages were crowded with furniture, the floors were strewn with books, the bureau was upstairs that was to stand in a lower bedroom, there was not a place to lay a table, there was nothing to lay upon it; for the knives and plates and spoons had not come, and although the tables were there, they were covered with chairs and boxes.

At this moment came a covered basket from the lady from Philadelphia.  It contained a choice supper, and forks and spoons, and at the same moment appeared a pot of hot tea from an opposite neighbor.  They placed all this on the back of a book-case lying upset, and sat around it.  Solomon John came rushing from the gate: