great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
"Would you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?"
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it altogether. We found everything in perfect order—the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxes —however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I sent in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she, "as you told me to, and while I was about it I thought I'd make it like a novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'. I suppose you don't mind."
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
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