She was met by Clam coming in from another door.

“Well, Clam,” said her mistress, “where is everybody this morning?”

“I don’t know where I am yet,” said Clam.  “Everybody’s abed and asleep, I ’spose.  Where be you, Miss ’Lizabeth?”

“Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?”

“’Most.  He said ’twas near upon two o’clock.”

“When?”

“When he had done sittin’ up, and went to bed.”

“How was Karen?”

“I ’spose she was goin’, but she ain’t in no hurry —­ she ain’t gone yet.”

“Then she was no worse?”

“She was better.  She was slicked up wonderful after seein’ the Governor, she telled me.  I wonder who ain’t.”

“He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?”

“I hope he haint,” said Clam, “or I don’ know when we’ll get breakfast —­ ’less he turns to and helps us.”

“He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday’s journey.  Where’s Anderese?”

“He took some bread and milk,” said Clam.

“Well —­ where’s Anderese? we must send him to Mountain Spring.”

“He’s got to go after wood, Miss ’Lizabeth —­ there ain’t three sticks more ’n ’ll set the fire agoing.”

“Must he!  Then you must go, Clam.”

“Very good.  Who’ll set the table, Miss ’Lizabeth?”

“Emma can.  Or you can, after you get back.”

“And there’s the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the knives to clean, and the bread to make —­”

“Bread! —­” said Miss Haye.

“Or cakes,” said Clam.  “One or t’other ’ll be wanted.  I don’t care which.”

“Don’t Emma know how?”

“She don’t know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye’s curls over a stick —­ when she ain’t doin’ her own.”

“Then give me a basket —­ I’ll go to Mountain Spring myself.”

“Who’ll bring the meat and things home?”

“I will; —­ or fish, or eggs, —­ something, whatever I can get.”

“It ’ll tire you, Miss ’Lizabeth —­ I guess, before you get back.”

“You find me a basket —­ while I put on my bonnet,” said Clam’s mistress.  And the one thing was done as soon as the other.

“I ’spect I’ll wake up some morning and find myself playing on the pianny-forty,” said Clam, as she watched her young mistress walking off with the basket.

CHAPTER XVII.

When was old Sherwood’s head more quaintly curled? 
Or looked the earth more green upon the world? 
Or nature’s cradle more enchased and purled? 
When did the air so smile, the wind so chime,
As quiristers of season, and the prime? 
BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring.  She took a very rough way, through the woods.  There was another, much plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot though it was.