He had fallen into the habit of lingering a little whenever he took his dairy products around to the side porch.  Every true man yearns for the eyes of some woman; and Ambrose developed the feeling that he should like to live with Miss Anna’s.  He had no gift for judging human conduct except by common human standards; and so at bottom he believed that Miss Anna in her own way had been telling him that if the time ever came, she could be counted on to do the right thing by him.

So Ambrose paced the sticky oilcloth this morning as a man who has reached the hill of decision.  He had bought him a new buggy and new harness.  Hitched to the one and wearing the other was his favorite roan mare with a Roman nose and a white eye, now dozing at the stiles in the front yard.  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.  She was trying a new recipe for some dinner comfort for Professor Hardage, when her old cook, who also answered the doorbell, returned to the kitchen with word that Mr. Webb was in the parlor.

“Why, I paid him for his milk,” exclaimed Miss Anna, without ceasing to beat and stir.  “And what is he doing in the parlor?  Why didn’t he come around to the side door?  I’ll be back in a moment.”  She took off her apron from an old habit of doing so whenever she entered the parlor.

She gave her dairyman the customary hearty greeting, hurried back to get him a glass of water, inquired dispassionately about grass, inundated him with a bounteous overflow of her impersonal humanity.  But he did not state his business, and she grew impatient to return to her confection.