vice of blood, or foul air and life, she knew nothing of it. She
never probed her own soul with fierce self-scorn, as this quiet
woman by her side did;--accepted, instead, the passing moment,
with keen enjoyment. For the rest, childishly trusted "the
Master."

This very drive, now, for instance,--although she and the cart
and Barney went through the same routine every day, you would
have thought it was a new treat for a special holiday, if you had
seen the perfect abandon with which they all threw themselves
into the fun of the thing. Not only did the very heaps of ruby
tomatoes, and corn in delicate green casings, tremble and shine
as though they enjoyed the fresh light and dew, but the old
donkey cocked his ears, and curved his scraggy neck, and tried to
look as like a high-spirited charger as he could. Then everybody
along the road knew Lois, and she knew everybody, and there was a
mutual liking and perpetual joking, not very refined, perhaps,
but hearty and kind. It was a new side of life for Margret. She
had no time for thoughts of self-sacrifice, or chivalry, ancient
or modern, watching it. It was a very busy ride,-- something to
do at every farm-house: a basket of eggs to be taken in, or some
egg-plants, maybe, which Lois laid side by side, Margret
noticed,--the pearly white balls close to the heap of royal
purple. No matter how small the basket was that she stopped for,
it brought out two or three to put it in; for Lois and her cart
were the event of the day for the lonely farm-houses. The wife
would come out, her face ablaze from the oven, with an anxious
charge about that butter; the old man would hail her from the
barn to know "ef she'd thought toh look in th' mail yes'rday;"
and one or the other was sure to add, "Jes' time for breakfast,