om her eyes and was
revealed in the beauty of her countenance and the grace of her person,
seemed embodied in the very odor of roses wafted over from the
neighboring flower garden. He was unconscious of the rapid growth
within his bosom of a deep and tender feeling. This feeling was casting
a warm glow, like softest sunshine, over all that he beheld. Not even
the chickens looked to him like other fowls of their kind; they were
ennobled by the reflection that they were objects of Mechtild's care,
that she fed them, that when they were still piping little pullets she
had held them in her lap and caressed them. He abandoned himself
completely to this sentiment; it carried him on like a smooth current;
and he could not tell, did not suspect even, why so wonderful a
reaction had in so short a time taken place in his interior. Beholding
himself seated under the walnut-tree surrounded only by evidences of
honorable poverty and rural thrift, and yet feeling a degree of
happiness and peace he had never known before, he fancied he was
performing a part in some fairy tale which he was dreaming with
his eyes open. And now the fairy appeared at the door having on a
snowy-white apron, and carrying a shallow basket from which could be
seen, protruding above the rest of its contents, a milk jar. She set
before him a pewter plate, bright as silver. Then she took out the jar
and a cup, next she laid a knife and spoon for him, and finished her
hospitable service with a huge loaf of bread.

"Don't get dismayed at the bread, Mr. Seraphin! I am sorry I cannot set
something better before you. But it is well baked and will not hurt
you!"

"You baked it yourself, did you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin!"

He attacked the loaf resolutely. From the dimensions of the slice which
he cut off, it was plain that appetite and his confidence in her skill
were satisfactory. She raised the jar of bonnyclabber, which lurched
out in jerks upon his plate, whilst he kept gayly stirring it with the
spoon. Then she dipped a spoonful of rich cream out of the cup and
poured it into the refreshing contents of the plate.

"Let me know when you want me to stop, Mr. Seraphin." Mechtild poured
spoonful after spoonful; he sat immovable, seemingly observing the
spoon, but in reality watching her soft plump fingers, then her
well-shaped hand, next her exquisitely arm, and, when finally he raised
his eyes to her face, they were met by a mischievous smile. The cup was
emp