intended to break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everything in John's waggon, and let him take the load to his house and keep it there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompaniments sent by express to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. It would not be necessary to say where we had been.
It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyed the novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the next week, to make up for all our shortcomings and mistakes. It seemed like losing all our labour and expenditure to break up now, but there was no help for it. Our place was at home.
We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainly have come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodation for them, neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides, we both thought that we would prefer that our ex-boarder and his wife should not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula.
We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoon passed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clock along came his oldest boy with a bucket of water.
"I'm to go back after the milk," he said.
"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his waggon? We've been waiting for him for hours."
"The horse is si I mean, he's gone to Ballville for oats."
"And why didn't he send and tell me?" I asked.
"There wasn't nobody to send," answered the boy.
"You are not telling the truth," exclaimed Euphemia; "there is always some one to send in a family like yours."
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