We were too glad to be at home.
"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually
forgotten them.
"Oh! they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off
right after breakfast."
We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our
dear home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. In-
doors we rushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden.
Everything now seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We
went from room to room, and seemed to appreciate better than ever
what a charming home we had.
We were so full of the delights of our return that we forgot all
about the Sunday dinner and our guests, but Pomona, whom my wife
was training to be an excellent cook, did not forget, and Euphemia
was summoned to a consultation in the kitchen.
Dinner was late; but our guests were later. We waited as long as
the state of the provisions and our appetites would permit, and
then we sat down to the table and began to eat slowly. But they
did not come. We finished our meal, and they were still absent.
We now became quite anxious, and I proposed to Euphemia that we
should go and look for them.
We started out, and our steps naturally turned toward the river.
An unpleasant thought began to crowd itself into my mind, and
perhaps the same thing happened to Euphemia, for, without saying
anything to each other, we both turned toward the path that led to
the peninsula. We crossed the field, climbed the fence, and there,
in front of the tent sat our old boarder splitting sticks with the
camp-hatchet.
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