"'Tis the Baron," Matthew said. "Not a good likeness, is it? He fancied himself a great hunter."

"However did he get it through the doors?" Caleb asked.

"However did he get it up the river?" Uriah countered.

Caleb stepped over a pile of rotting newspapers and moved a broken chair aside. "Well, he got it in, surely we can get it out." He touched the cold stone. "Perhaps not."

Matthew blotted the last drop of perspiration off his forehead, folded his handkerchief and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Then he removed his reading glasses, put them on and pretended to admire a large landscape painting.

Caleb walked to the stairs, leaned down and felt the top of a warped step. "This is easy to repair. A bit of wood and . . ."

"Aye, and while we're about it, we can clear the land, carry water, replace the windows and wash the linens," mumbled Uriah.

"Well, I like the place. I find it most agreeable."

Uriah folded his arms, "And do you also believe Elizabeth will find it agreeable?"

"Once it is presentable, yes."

"Precisely how long will it take to make the place presentable? A month, two, a year perhaps? Do you think to leave our wives in Boston?"

"Certainly not." Caleb brushed the dirt off his hands, "Brother, we will make them love it somehow."