“I’m going to have the bedroom off the kitchen, ’cause you can see the lake from it,” she told the driver.

“It’ll be colder’n charity in the winter.  Better take the middle one,” he remarked, setting the kitchen stove down with a bang.

“No, old Lizzie’ll want to have that.  Well, I’ll begin to get things settled.”

Lizzie arrived on the third and final load.  She brought with her a lunch that they shared with the driver.  He good-naturedly set up the kitchen stove and the three beds for them and departed with the hope that they would not be too lonesome.

Lydia and old Lizzie put in an afternoon of gigantic effort.  By six o’clock, the beds were made, dishes unpacked and in the china closet, the table was set for supper and an Irish stew of Lydia’s make was simmering on the stove.

When Amos came up the path at a half after six, his dinner pail in his hand, he found Lydia flat on her back on the little front porch.  Her curly head was wet with perspiration; face, hands and blouse were black.  The baby sat beside her, trying to get Florence Dombey to sleep.

“Well,” said Amos, looking down on his family, “how do you like it, Lydia?”

“It’s great!  My back’s broken!  Supper’s ready.”

“You shouldn’t lift heavy things, child!  How often have I told you?  Wait until I get home.”

“I want to get things done,” replied Lydia, “so’s I can do a little playing before school opens.  Come on in and see all we’ve done, Daddy.”

She forget her aching back and led the way into the house.  Amos was as excited and pleased as the children and Lizzie, so tired that her old hands shook, was as elated as the others.

“It’s much more roomy than the old house and all on one floor.  ’Twill save me the stairs.  And the garden’ll be fine,” she said, failing to call attention to the fact that the water was far from the house and that there was no kitchen sink.

“We’ve got to try to keep this place cleaner than we did the other,” said Amos.  “Lydia, better wash up for supper.”

“Oh, Daddy,” said Lydia, “I’m too tired!  Don’t make me!”

“All right,” answered Amos, “but your mother was always clean and so am I. I don’t see where you get it.”

“Maybe one of my ancestors was a garbage man,” suggested Lydia, sliding into her place at the table.

She allowed Lizzie to carry Patience into their bedroom after supper and Amos, smoking in the yard and planning the garden for next year, waited in vain to hear “Beulah Land” and “Wreathe me no gaudy chaplet” float to him from the open window.

“Where’s Lydia, Lizzie?” he asked as the old lady came out to empty the dish water.

“She ain’t come out yet.  Maybe she’s fell asleep too.”

The two tip-toed to the window.  On the bed under the covers was little Patience, fast asleep, and beside her, on top of the covers, fully dressed, lay Lydia, an arm across her little sister, in the sleep of utter exhaustion.