te sort of
prettiness, was waiting for us on the steps with a fine chubby baby on
her arm--number five.

The home was much the sort of place I had imagined--a small house
undesirably located (but cheap!), with a few straggling acres of
garden and meadow upon which the minister and his boys were trying with
inexperienced hands to piece out their inadequate living. At the very
first glimpse of the garden I wanted to throw off my coat and go at it.

And yet--and yet----what a wonderful thing love is! There was, after
all, something incalculable, something pervasively beautiful about this
poor household. The moment the minister stepped inside his own door he
became a different and livelier person. Something boyish crept into his
manner, and a new look came into the eyes of his faded wife that made
her almost pretty again. And the fat, comfortable baby rolled and
gurgled about on the floor as happily as though there had been two
nurses and a governess to look after him. As for the four boys, I have
never seen healthier or happier ones.

I sat with them at their Sunday-evening luncheon. As the minister bowed
his head to say grace I felt him clasp my hand on one side while the
oldest boy clasped my hand on the other, and thus, linked together, and
accepting the stranger utterly, the family looked up to God.

There was a fine, modest gayety about the meal. In front of Mrs.
Minister stood a very large yellow bowl filled with what she called
rusk--a preparation unfamiliar to me, made by browning and crushing the
crusts of bread and then rolling them down into a coarse meal. A bowl of
this, with sweet, rich, yellow milk (for they kept their own cow), made
one of the most appetizing dishes that ever I ate. It was downright
good: it gave one the unalloyed aroma of the sweet new milk and the
satisfying taste of the crisp bread.

Nor have I ever enjoyed a more perfect hospitality. I have been in
many a richer home where there was not a hundredth part of the true
gentility--the gentility of unapologizing simplicity and kindness.

And after it was over and cleared away--the minister himself donning a
long apron and helping his wife--and the chubby baby put to bed, we all
sat around the table in the gathering twilight.

I think men perish sometimes from sheer untalked talk. For lack of
a creative listener they gradually fill up with unexpressed emotion.
Presently this emotion begins to ferment, and finally--bang!--they blow
up, b