Later that night after everyone including Jonas had left, the house mused to itself. It felt better than it had in decades. Layers of dust had been removed, the walls and baseboards were being whitewashed in preparation for a fresh cost of paint, and cobwebs had been swept out of corners. For a whole day, the house had been filled with bustling young women, all diligent workers, all gentle as they swept and dusted and wiped. They treated the house as if it were their own.
The house raised its shades just enough to see the full moon shining down upon it. It sighed long and deep, but this was a sigh of pleasure, of happiness. It had been so lonely so long, it had forgotten what it felt like to be loved and cared for. The house had meditated all the night before, thinking over the pact that Jonas had made with it. Jonas was right, the house thought. It had to avoid harming or frightening anyone, otherwise it might left to decay, or worse.
Jonas was also right about the young girls. They had meant no harm. The house had simply forgotten what it was like to have playful children inside it. The Kindfellow children had been just as playful, especially the three boys and Rebekka, the baby. Mariah had been more serious but never chided her siblings for their silly behavior. Nor had Mr. or Mrs. Kindfellow. Nor had the house. They all had seemed to take great pleasure in their antics. Thus, the house came to respect Jonas Buckthorn’s judgment as well as like the young man.
In fact, the house thought Jonas Buckthorn was very much like Mr. Kindfellow. He even looked quite a bit like him. He was not the craftsman that Mr. Kindfellow was, but Mr. Buckthorn admired craftsmanship and the house could tell that he had great admiration for Mr. Kindfellow’s work.
And Miss Ringworthy. She was perfect, the house thought. She looked exactly like the late Mrs. Kindfellow. With that last thought, the house went to sleep and dreamed of a new family to come reside within it—the Buckthorns.
