David, watching her from the bed in the adjoining room, gave way to
silent laughter, and she resumed her solemn count.

"Forty-six, forty--"

"Fifty-six," he called. "Don't try any trickery on me."

"Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty." She sighed
audibly. "Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four--sixty-four
perfectly fresh eggs," she announced, turning to the doorway and
frowning at her husband, who still laughed. "Sixty-four perfectly
fresh eggs, all laid yesterday."

"Now, I give you fair warning, my dear, I am no cold storage plant, and
you can't make me absorb any sixty-four egg-nogs daily just to even up
the demand with the supply. I drank seven yesterday, but this is too
much. You must seek another warehouse."

"You are very clever and facetious, Davie, really quite entertaining.
But what am I to do with sixty-four fresh eggs?"

"And I may as well confess frankly that I consider a minister's wife
distinctly out of her sphere when she tries to corner the fresh egg
market, particularly at the present price of existence. It isn't
scriptural. It isn't orthodox. I am surprised at you, Carol. It must
be some more Methodism cropping out. I never knew a Presbyterian to do
it."

"And as for milk--"