influence of the warm sun. Her son smiled as he saw her stoop to
lift a feeble, over-early hop toad back under the safety of the
jonquil leaves, out of sight of a possible savage rooster. He knew
what expression lay in her soft gray eyes that brooded under her
Wide, placid brow, upon which fell abundant and often riotous silver
water-waves. His own eyes were very like them and softened as he
looked at her, a masculine version of one of her quick s quirked at
the corner of his clean-cut mouth.

"The bread of life--she's found it," he said to himself musingly as
he slipped the last buckle in his bridle tight.

"Elinory," called Mother Mayberry from the kitchen steps, "come out
here and sense the spring. Everywhere you look they is some young
thing a-peeping up or a-reaching out or a-running over or wobbling
or bleating or calling. Looks like the whole world have done broke
out in blooms and babies."

"I can't--I wish I could," came an answer in a low, beautiful voice
with a queer, husky note. "It's all sticking to my hands, flour and
everything, and I don't know what to do!"

"Dearie me, you've put in the milk a little too liberal! Wait until
I sift on a mite more flour. Now rub it in light! See, it's all
right, and most beautiful dough. Don't be discouraged, for riz
biscuits is most the top test of cooking. Keep remembering back to
those cup custards you made yesterday, what Tom Mayberry ate three
of for supper and then tried to sneak one outen the milk-house to
eat before he went to bed."