“Those Van Sizers ought to be downright ashamed of themselves,” she said, “to leave everything in such a muss as this.  You must see about getting a man to clean up the yard, Theron.  It’s no use your thinking of doing it yourself.  In the first place, it wouldn’t look quite the thing, and, second, you’d never get at it in all your born days.  Or if a man would cost too much, we might get a boy.  I daresay Harvey would come around, after he’d finished with his milk-route in the forenoon.  We could give him his dinner, you know, and I’d bake him some cookies.  He’s got the greatest sweet-tooth you ever heard of.  And then perhaps if we gave him a quarter, or say half a dollar, he’d be quite satisfied.  I’ll speak to him in the morning.  We can save a dollar or so that way.”

“I suppose every little does help,” commented Mr. Ware, with a doleful lack of conviction.  Then his face brightened.  “I tell you what let’s do!” he exclaimed.  “Get on your street dress, and we’ll take a long walk, way out into the country.  You’ve never seen the basin, where they float the log-rafts in, or the big sawmills.  The hills beyond give you almost mountain effects, they are so steep; and they say there’s a sulphur spring among the slate on the hill-side, somewhere, with trees all about it; and we could take some sandwiches with us—­”

“You forget,” put in Mrs. Ware,—­“those trustees are coming at eleven.”

“So they are!” assented the young minister, with something like a sigh.  He cast another reluctant, lingering glance at the sunlit elm boughs, and, turning, went indoors.

He loitered for an aimless minute in the kitchen, where his wife, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, now resumed the interrupted washing of the breakfast dishes—­perhaps with vague visions of that ever-receding time to come when they might have a hired girl to do such work.  Then he wandered off into the room beyond, which served them alike as living-room and study, and let his eye run along the two rows of books that constituted his library.  He saw nothing which he wanted to read.  Finally he did take down “Paley’s Evidences,” and seated himself in the big armchair—­that costly and oversized anomaly among his humble house-hold gods; but the book lay unopened on his knee, and his eyelids half closed themselves in sign of revery.

This was his third charge—­this Octavius which they both knew they were going to dislike so much.

The first had been in the pleasant dairy and hop country many miles to the south, on another watershed and among a different kind of people.  Perhaps, in truth, the grinding labor, the poverty of ideas, the systematic selfishness of later rural experience, had not been lacking there; but they played no part in the memories which now he passed in tender review.  He recalled instead the warm sunshine on the fertile expanse of fields; the sleek, well-fed herds of “milkers” coming lowing down the road under the maples; the