The "Sawyer girls'" barn still had its haymow in Rebecca's time,
although the hay was a dozen years old or more, and, in the
opinion of the occasional visiting horse, sadly juiceless and
wanting in flavor. It still sheltered, too, old Deacon Israel
Sawyer's carryall and mowing-machine, with his pung, his sleigh,
and a dozen other survivals of an earlier era, when the broad
acres of the brick house went to make one of the finest farms in
Riverboro.

There were no horses or cows in the stalls nowadays; no pig
grunting comfortably of future spare ribs in the sty; no hens to
peck the plants in the cherished garden patch. The Sawyer girls
were getting on in years, and, mindful that care once killed a
cat, they ordered their lives with the view of escaping that
particular doom, at least, and succeeded fairly well until
Rebecca's advent made existence a trifle more sensational.

Once a month for years upon years, Miss Miranda and Miss Jane had
put towels over their heads and made a solemn visit to the barn,
taking off the enameled cloth coverings (occasionally called
"emmanuel covers" in Riverboro), dusting the ancient implements,
and sometimes sweeping the heaviest of the cobwebs from the
corners, or giving a brush to the floor.

Deacon Israel's tottering ladder still stood in its accustomed
place, propped against the haymow, and the heavenly stairway
leading to eternal glory scarcely looked fairer to Jacob of old
than this to Rebecca. By means of its dusty rounds she mounted,
mounted, mounted far away from time and care and maiden aunts,