Vine-Pits to a cottage near
Otterford Mill, leaving behind him the bulk of his furniture as the
property of the incomers. Thus the Dales would have no difficulty in
furnishing the comparatively large house that henceforth was to be
their home.

For the last two days they had been living chaotically in rooms
stripped to a woeful bareness; this morning Mary had gone along the
Hadleigh Road with a wagon full of bedsteads, bedding, and household
utensils; and now, late in the afternoon, the wagon stood at the post
office door again, packed this time with a final load consisting of
those treasures which had been held back for transit under their
owners' charge.

Mavis had already climbed up, and was settling herself on a high
valley of rolled carpets between two mountain ranges formed by the
piano and the parlor bookcases. With anxious eyes she looked at minor
chains of packing-cases that contained the best china, the mantel
ornaments, the hand-painted pictures. Inside a basket on her knees
their cat was mewing disconsolately, despite well-buttered paws. The
two big horses, one in front of the other, continuously tinkled the
metal disks on their forehead bands; Mr. Allen and other neighbors
came out of their shops; Miss Yorke and the clerks from the office
filled the pavement; children gathered about the wagon staring
silently, and Miss Waddy on the opposite pavement waved her
handkerchief and said "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Good luck!"

"Thank you, thank you kindly." Dale moved about briskly, shaking hands
with every one. Already he had abandoned all trace of his ancient
official costume. In cord breeches and leather gaiters, his straw hat
on the back of his head, he looked thoroughly farmer-like, and he
seemed to have assumed the jovial independent manner as well as the
clothes appropriate to the man who has no other master but the winds
and the weather.

"So long, Mr. Allen. Put in a good word for me at the Kennels."

"I will so, Mr. Dale."

"Good-by, Mr. Silcox. Hope you'll honor us with a call whenever you're
passing. And if you can, give me a lift in the _Courier_. I may say
it's my intention to patronize their advertisement columns regular,
soon's ever I begin to feel my feet under me."

"See _Rodchurch Gossip_ next issue," said Mr. Silcox significantly.

"Thanks. You're a trump."

"Good-by, Miss Yorke." And he laughed. "'Pon my soul, I'm surprised
it's still _Miss_ Yorke; but it'll be _Mrs._ before long, I