The boy was not going to be chaffed. "Oh, I'll bring you milk fast
enough on Sundays, if you give me the word," he said with nonchalance.
"Only it won't last long."

"How do you mean--'won't last long'?", asked Mrs. Ware, briskly.

The boy liked her--both for herself, and for the doughnuts fried with
her own hands, which she gave him on his morning round. He dropped his
half-defiant tone.

"The thing of it's this," he explained. "Every new minister starts in
saying we can deliver to this house on Sundays, an' then gives us notice
to stop before the month's out. It's the trustees that does it."

The Rev. Theron Ware uncrossed his feet and moved out on to the stoop
beside his wife. "What's that you say?" he interjected. "Don't THEY take
milk on Sundays?"

"Nope!" answered the boy.

The young couple looked each other in the face for a puzzled moment,
then broke into a laugh.

"Well, we'll try it, anyway," said the preacher. "You can go on bringing
it Sundays till--till--"

"Till you cave in an' tell me to stop," put in the boy. "All right!" and
he was off on the instant, the dipper jangling loud incredulity in his
pail as he went.