"It's sunnier in there, sir. I could just clear the end of that table.
There's a fine big tray, sir."

"An excellent idea," replied Wade. "I place myself--and my house--in
your hands, Zephania."

"Thank you, sir," said Zephania.

Breakfast was prepared that morning to the strains of "Jesus, Lover of
My Soul." Wade went out to the kitchen presently to wash hands and face
at the sink and dry them on a roller towel, which Zephania whisked
before him as if by magic. Watching her for a minute or two dispelled
all doubts as to her ability. The way in which she broke the eggs and
slipped them into the boiling water was a revelation of dexterity. And
all the while she sang on uninterruptedly, joyously, like the
gray-breast on the hedge. Wade went out into the garden and breathed in
deep breaths of the cool, moist air. The grass and the shrubs were heavy
with dew and the morning world was redolent of the perfume exhaled from
moist earth and growing things. In the neglected orchard the birds were
chattering and piping, and from a nearby field came the excited cawing
of crows. It was corn-planting time.

Wade ate his breakfast by the open window. He didn't know in which of
the three ways Zephania had prepared his coffee, but it was excellent,
and even the condensed milk couldn't spoil it. The eggs were snowy
cushions of delight on golden tablets of toast, and the butter was hued
like old ivory. Zephania objected to condensed milk, however, and
suggested that she be allowed to bring a quart of "real milk" with her
when she came in the mornings.