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.
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