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The Deacon said, “All right, all right! We’ll fix it up!” but he didn’t feel so sure of it after that, though he set to work bravely.

The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam around the kitchen door and around the chip-pile where the hens were burrowing. The men worked in their shirt-sleeves.

“Well, now, we’ll share the furniture an’ stuff next,” said the Deacon, looking around upon his little interested semicircle of spectators. “Now, put Emmy’s things over there and Serry’s things over here. I’ll call ’em off, and, if they’s no objection, you girls can pass ’em over.”

He cleared his throat and began in the voice of one in authority:–

“Thirteen pans, six to Emmy, seven to Serry;” then hastened to add: “I’ll balance that by giving the biggest of the two kittles to Emmy. Rollin’ pin and cake board to Serry, two flat-irons to Emmy, small tub to Emmy, large one to Serry, balanced by the tin water pail. Dozen clo’se-pins; half an’ half, six o’ one, half-dozen t’other,” he said with a smile at his own joke, while the others actively placed the articles in separate piles.

“Stove to Serry, because she has the house, bureau to Emmy.”

At this point Mrs. Gray said, “I guess that ain’t quite even, Deacon; the bureau ain’t worth much.”

“Oh, no, no, that’s all right! Let her have it,” Emma protested nervously.

“Give her an extry tick, anyway,” said Sarah, not to be outdone in magnanimity.

“Settle that between ye,” said the Deacon.

He warmed to his work now, and towels, pans, crockery, brooms, mirrors, pillows, and bedticks were rapidly set aside in two groups on the soft soil. The poverty of the home could best be seen in the display of its pitiful furniture.

The two nieces looked on impassively, standing side by side. The men came to move the bureau and other heavy things and looked on, while the lighter things were being handed over by Mrs. Gray and the girls.

At noon they sat down in the empty kitchen and ate a cold snack–at least, the women took seats, the men stood around and lunched on hunks of boiled beef and slices of bread. There was an air of constraint upon the male portion of the party not shared by Mrs. Gray and the girls.

“Well, that settles things in the house,” beamed the Deacon as he came out with the women trailing behind him; “an’ now in about two jerks of a dead lamb’s tail, we’ll git at the things out in the barn.”

“Wal, we don’t know much about machines and things, but I guess we’d better go out and keep you men from fightin’,” said Mrs. Gray, shaking with fun; “Ike didn’t come because he didn’t want to make any trouble, but I guess he might just as well ‘a’ come as send two such critters as Jim ‘n’ Hank.”

The women laughed at her frankness, and in very good humor they all went out to the barn-yard.

“Now, these things can’t be laid out fast as I call ’em off, but we’ll do the best we can.”

“Let’s try the stawk first,” said Jim.

The women stood around with shawls pinned over their heads while the division of the stock went forward. The young men came often within chaffing distance of the girls.

There were nine shotes nearly of a size, and the Deacon said, “I’ll give Serry the odd shote.”

“Why so?” asked Jim Harkey, a sullen-faced man of thirty.

“Because a shote is hard to carry off and I can balance–“

“Well, I guess you can balance f’r Em ’bout as well as f’r Serry.”

The Deacon was willing to yield a point. “Any objection, Bill? If not, why–“

“Nope, let her go,” said Bill.

“What ‘ave you got to say ’bout it?” asked Jim, insolently.

Bill turned his slow bulk. “I guess I’ve a good ‘eal to say–haven’t I, Serry?”

Sarah reddened, but stood beside him bravely. “I guess you have, Bill, about as much as I have.” There was a moment of dramatic tension and the girls tingled with sympathy.