ill crying piece mammy's jug, or pick up spilt milk? How
did you manage it, Tommy?'

'He' (jerking his head at the other) 'and me was running races.'

'Tommy said he could beat me,' put in the other.

'Now, I wonder what will make you two silly lads mind, and not run
races again with a pitcher of milk between you,' said the minister, as
if musing. 'I might flog you, and so save mammy the trouble; for I dare
say she'll do it if I don't.' The fresh burst of whimpering from both
showed the probability of this.

'Or I might take you to the Hope Farm, and give you some more milk; but
then you'd be running races again, and my milk would follow that to the
ground, and make another white pool. I think the flogging would be
best--don't you?'

'We would never run races no more,' said the elder of the two.

'Then you'd not be boys; you'd be angels.'

'No, we shouldn't.'

'Why not?'

They looked into each other's eyes for an answer to this puzzling
question. At length, one said, 'Angels is dead folk.'

'Come; we'll not get too deep into theology. What do you think of my
lending you a tin can with a lid to carry the milk home in? That would
not break, at any rate; though I would not answer for the milk not
spilling if you ran races. That's it!'

He had dropped his daughter's hand, and now held out each of his to the
little fellows. Phillis and I followed, and listened to the prattle
which the minister's companions now poured out to him, and which he was
evidently enjoying. At a certain point, there was a sudden burst of the
tawny, ruddy-evening landscape. The minister turned round and quoted a
line or two of Latin.

'It's wonderful,' said he, 'how exactly Virgil has hit the enduring
epithets, nearly two thousand years ago, and in Italy; and yet how it
describes to a T what is now lying before us in the parish of
Heathbridge, county ----, England.'

'I dare say it does,' said I, all aglow with shame, for I had forgotten
the little Latin I ever knew.

The minister shifted his eyes to Phillis's face; it mutely gave him
back the sympathetic appreciation that I, in my ignorance, could not
bestow.

'Oh! this is worse than the catechism,' thought I; 'that was only
remembering words.'

'Phillis, lass, thou must go home with these lads, and tell their
mother all about the race and the milk. Mammy must always know the
truth,' now speaking to the children. 'And tell her, too, from me that
I have got the best birch rod in