“What made you have the seat so narrow, Roger?” asked Sue; “you couldn’t squeeze three people in to save your life.”

“I’m content with one girl at a time,” replied Roger, with a complacent shrug.

“And the same girl only one time, too, from what I hear.  You’ve taken out all there are in Forestville haven’t you?”

“Haven’t got quite around yet.  And then some prudent mothers do think the seat a trifle narrow, and the ones I’d like to take out most can’t go.  But there’s plenty that can.”

“And one is as good as another,” added his sister, maliciously, “If she will only talk nonsense, and let you hold her from falling out when you whisk over the thank-e-ma’ams.”

“I didn’t have to go from home to learn that most girls talk nonsense,” laughed Roger.  “By the way, how did you learn about the thank-e-ma’ams?  I didn’t teach you.”

“No, indeed!  Sisters may fall out for all that brothers care.”

“That depends on whose sisters they are,” said Roger, rising.  “I now perceive that mine has been well taken care of.”

“You think other young men have your pert ways,” retorted Sue, reddening.  “My friends have manners.”

“Oh, I see.  They let you fall out, and then politely pick you up.”

“Come, you are both in danger of falling out now,” said the mother reprovingly.

Roger went off whistling to his work, and the hired man lumbered after him.

“Father,” said Mrs. Atwood, “who’ll go down to the river for the trunks?”

“Well, I s’pose I’ll have to,” grumbled Mr. Atwood.  “Roger don’t want to, and Jotham can do more work in the cornfield than me.”

“I’m glad you’re so sensible.  Riding down to the river and back will be a good bit easier than hoeing corn all day.  The stage will be along about five, I guess, and I’ll get supper for ’em in the sittin’-room, so you can eat in your shirt-sleeves, if that’ll quiet your mind.”

With the aspect of a November day Mr. Atwood got out the great farm-wagon and jogged down to the landing on the Hudson, which was so distant as to insure his absence for several hours.

It was a busy day for Mrs. Atwood and Susan.  Fresh bread and cake were to be baked, and the rooms “tidied up” once more.  A pitcher that had lost its handle was filled with old-fashioned roses that persisted in blooming in a grass-choked flower-bed.  This was placed in the room designed for Mrs. Jocelyn and the children, while the one flower vase, left unbroken from the days of Roger’s boyish carelessness, adorned the smaller apartment that Mildred and Belle were to occupy, and this was about the only element of elegance or beauty that Susan was able to impart part to the bare little room.  Even to the country girl, to whom the term “decorative art” was but a vague phrase, the place seemed meagre and hard in its outlines, and she instinctively felt that it would appear far more so to its occupants.