"I'm awful glad to see you back," she said; "though I'd never have
said so while you was in camp."

I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was
growing splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was
in first-rate order, and there were two broods of little yellow
puffy chicks.

Down on her knees went my wife, to pick up the little creatures,
one by one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call them
tootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona,
and soon afterward by Euphemia.

The cow was all right.

"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look
exactly like it ought to, yet, and the skim-milk I didn't know what
to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day,
and was real mad once because I had given a lot of it to the dog,
and couldn't let him have but a pint."

"He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to
the house. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk."

We laughed, and didn't care. 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