your time?"

"That will not be necessary, Daniel. By the look of things now we
shall be up earlier each morning, and one hour then is worth two later
in the day."

After the parson had lighted the fire in the cooking-stove, and also
the one in the living-room, he went to the barn to milk. He kept one
Jersey cow which supplied enough milk for the house. This was a fine
animal, and the pride of the neighbourhood, as it had taken the first
prize at the large Exhibition held that very fall in the city.

The rectory was situated upon land known as "The Glebe," about fifty
acres in extent, which had been granted to the Church by the Crown in
Loyalist days. About one-third of this was under cultivation,
producing hay and oats for the horse and cow, as well as all the
vegetables needed for the table. Several acres were given up to
pasturage, while the remainder was wooded. The Royals were, therefore,
most comfortably situated, and quite independent. A small orchard
provided them with apples, the taste of which was well known to every
person in the parish, especially the children, for Parson Dan seldom
started forth without his pockets filled with Russets, Pippins, or
Fameuse. Mrs. Royal had her hens, and no eggs seemed as large and
fresh as the ones she often sent to some sick or aged person, in the
parish.

While Mrs. Royal was looking after the baby, the parson fed his horse,
"Sweepstakes," and milked "Brindle," the cow. He then turned the
latter loose, and drove her down the lane to the feeding-ground beyond.

"There is a stray cow out in the pasture," the clergyman informed his
wife as he sipped his coffee.

"Whose is it?" was the somewhat absent-minded reply, for Mrs. Royal's
attention was upon Rodney, who was creeping gaily about the floor,
examining every nook, and making himself perfectly at home.

"I don't know whose it is," the parson retorted, a little nettled at
his wife's question. "I can tell you about every man, woman, and child
in this parish; I know all the horses and dogs, and can give you their
pedigrees. But I draw a line at cows, pigs, hens, and cats. I am fond
enough of them, but there is a limit to the things I can remember. I
forget too much as it is. And, by the way, that reminds me that I must
go to Hazlewood to-day. Joe Bradley told me last night that his mother
is ill, and wishes to see me. He came all the way to the meeting on
purpose to tell me, and to think that I nearly f