"Well, myself, I prefer women who aren't so peculiar," said the farmer.
"Even if they're not so good," he added.

"Take care," replied his wife. "That potato-pie isn't in the oven yet!"




CHAPTER IV


Anne Hilton got up when the sky was tinged with the sunrise, feeling
anew the security of recovered daylight after the stillness of the
lonely house during the night. There was little to put in order about
her house. "Where no oxen are the crib is clean," she would often quote.
There was absolute silence in the cottage, and as she opened the windows
she saw the first thin smoke, the incense of labour, rising from other
houses. The garden was fragrant with flowers, soon to be gathered and
made into bunches for the market. The increasing glory of the sky
promised another fine day for the harvest. She read the text on the
Calendar and made it the subject of her prayer, which she uttered aloud
with great fervour. Then she went down the stairs, which entered
directly into the kitchen, and lit the fire for her breakfast. The day
following was market-day, the day on which she depended for her living,
and to-day the butter for which she was justly celebrated had to be
made. Beyond the kitchen was a dairy with a stone shelf round three
sides of it, a churn in the middle, large earthenware mugs of cream, and
a great tub of buttermilk in the corner. The sunlight never fell on this
side of the house until late afternoon, so that, though the day was
already hot, the shadow of the dairy and the yard beyond with its shed