Andrew
had the time of his life building shelves all round our
living-room; not content with that he turned the old hen house
into a study for himself, put in a stove, and used to sit up
there evenings after I had gone to bed. The first thing I
knew he called the place Sabine Farm (although it had been
known for years as Bog Hollow) because he thought it a
literary thing to do. He used to take a book along with him
when he drove over to Redfield for supplies; sometimes the
wagon would be two hours late coming home, with old Ben
loafing along between the shafts and Andrew lost in his book.
I didn't think much of all this, but I'm an easy-going woman
and as long as Andrew kept the farm going I had plenty to do
on my own hook. Hot bread and coffee, eggs and preserves for
breakfast; soup and hot meat, vegetables, dumplings, gravy,
brown bread and white, huckleberry pudding, chocolate cake and
buttermilk for dinner; muffins, tea, sausage rolls,
blackberries and cream, and doughnuts for supper--that's the
kind of menu I had been preparing three times a day for years.
I hadn't any time to worry about what wasn't my business.
And then one morning I caught Andrew doing up a big, flat
parcel for the postman.
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