Mrs. Ware stood on the platform of her new kitchen stoop. The bright
flood of May-morning sunshine completely enveloped her girlish form,
clad in a simple, fresh-starched calico gown, and shone in golden
patches upon her light-brown hair. She had a smile on her face, as she
looked down at the milk boy standing on the bottom step--a smile of a
doubtful sort, stormily mirthful.

"Come out a minute, Theron!" she called again; and in obedience to the
summons the tall lank figure of her husband appeared in the open doorway
behind her. A long loose, open dressing-gown dangled to his knees,
and his sallow, clean-shaven, thoughtful face wore a morning undress
expression of youthful good-nature. He leaned against the door-sill,
crossed his large carpet slippers, and looked up into the sky, drawing a
long satisfied breath.

"What a beautiful morning!" he exclaimed. "The elms over there are full
of robins. We must get up earlier these mornings, and take some walks."

His wife indicated the boy with the milk-pail on his arm, by a wave of
her hand.

"Guess what he tells me!" she said. "It wasn't a mistake at all, our
getting no milk yesterday or the Sunday before. It seems that that's the
custom here, at least so far as the parsonage is concerned."

"What's the matter, boy?" asked the young minister, drawling his words
a little, and putting a sense of placid irony into them. "Don't the cows
give milk on Sunday, then?"