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.
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