man standards; and so at
bottom he believed that Miss Anna in her own way had been telling
him that if the time ever came, she could be counted on to do the
right thing by him.

So Ambrose paced the sticky oilcloth this morning as a man who has
reached the hill of decision. He had bought him a new buggy and
new harness. Hitched to the one and wearing the other was his
favorite roan mare with a Roman nose and a white eye, now dozing at
the stiles in the front yard. He had curried her and had combed
her mane and tail and had had her newly shod, and altogether she
may have felt too comfortable to keep awake. He himself seemed to
have received a coating of the same varnish as his buggy. Had you
pinned a young beetle in the back of his coat or on either leg of
his trousers, as a mere study in shades of blackness, it must have
been lost to view at the distance of a few yards through sheer
harmony with its background. Under his Adam's apple there was a
green tie--the bough to the fruit. His eyes sparkled as though
they had lately been reset and polished by a jeweller.

What now delayed and excited him at this last moment before setting
out was uncertainty as to the offering he should bear Miss Anna.
Fundamental instincts vaguely warned him that love's altar must be
approached with gifts. He knew that some brought fortune, some
warlike deeds, some fame, some the beauty of their strength and
youth. He had none of these to offer; but he was a plain farmer,
and he could give her what he had so often sold her--a pound of
butter.

He had awaited the result of the morning churning; but the butter
had tasted of turnips, and Ambrose did not think that the taste of
turnips represented the flavor of his emotion. Nevertheless, there
was one thing that she preferred even to butter; he would ensnare
her in her own weakness, catch her in her own net: he would take
her a jar of cream.

Miss Anna was in her usual high spirits that morning. She was
trying a new recipe for some dinner comfort for Professor Hardage,
when her old cook, who also answered the doorbell, returned to the
kitchen with word that Mr. Webb was in the parlor.

"Why, I paid him for his milk," exclaimed Miss Anna, without
ceasing to beat and stir. "And what is he doing in the parlor?
Why didn't he come around to the side door? I'll be back in a
moment." She took off her apron from an old habit of doing so
whenever she entered the parlor.

She gave her