We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom in the house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on a period of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be true when we went down to get breakfest.  I made the fire, Euphemia made the coffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs.  The good woman was in high spirits.  She was evidently pleased at the idea of having neighbors, temporary though they were, and it had probably been a long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs, and sundries.  It was almost the same as opening a country store.  We bought groceries and every thing of her.

We had a glorious time that day.  We were just starting out for a mountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip.

“Hello!” he called out.  “Want to go back this morning?”

“Not a bit of it,” I cried.  “We wont go back for a couple of weeks.  We’ve settled here for the present.”

The man smiled.  He didn’t seem to understand it exactly, but he was evidently glad to see us so well satisfied.  If he had had time to stop and have the matter explained to him, he would probably have been better satisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us and drove on.  He was a good fellow.

We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunch with us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home.  Mrs. Carson, with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and was making the fire.  This woman was too kind.  We determined to try and repay her in some way.  After a splendid supper we went to bed happy.

The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after it rained.  So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged about everywhere.  I visited the garret again, and we went to the old barn, with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times climbing about there.  We were delighted that it happened to rain.  In a wood-shed, near the house, I saw a big square board with letters on it.  I examined the board, and found it was a sign,—­a hanging sign,—­and on it was painted in letters that were yet quite plain: 

  “FARMERS’
    AND
  MECHANICS’
  HOTEL.”

I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign.  She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.

“Soldiers and sailors!” she exclaimed; “that’s funny.”

I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was the inscription: 

  “SOLDIERS’
    AND
  SAILORS’
  HOUSE.”

“They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town,” I said.  “Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern like this.  But I wish they hadn’t taken it down.  The house would look more like what it ought to be with its sign hanging before it.”

“Well, then,” said Euphemia, “let’s put it up.”