ctually that he was going to marry
Judy in a fortnight. At least Judy was a good woman--nobody had ever
said a word against her--and she would make him a good wife. That, after
all, was what a farmer must think of--a good, saving wife, without any
foolishness about her, who would be thrifty and lend a hand at his work
when he needed it. All the rest was nonsense when once a man married.
Dreams were all very well in their way, but realities and not dreams,
after all, were things he must live with. Looking ahead he saw his
future stretching smooth and firm, like the flat white turnpike that
dragged its solid length into the distance. On that road there was no
place for the absurdity of red stockings! And so, in the absence of all
elation, only the grim sense of duty in the doing soothed him as he made
his way to Solomon Hatch's cottage.

On the back porch he found Judy deftly taking butter out of the churn,
and watched her while she worked the soft lumps with a wooden paddle
in a large yellow bowl. Though he would have been the last to suspect
it--for passion like temptation appeared to him to beset the beautiful
alone--Judy, in her homely way, was also a crucible, and the little
earthern pot of her body was near to bursting at the moment from the
violence of the flames within. She had just seen a black coated figure
in a red gig spin by on the road, and for one blissful minute, she had
permitted herself a flight of fancy, in which she was the bride, not of
Abel Revercomb, but of Orlando Mullen. To sit in that red wheeled gig,
touching the sleeve of his black coat! To stitch the frayed seams in is
silk waistcoat! To iron his surplices as only she could iron when the
divine fury seized her! To visit his poor and afflicted! To lift her
swooning gaze every Sunday, with a sense of possession, to that pulpit!
For a minute only the rapture lasted, and all the time, she went on
placidly making butter in the large yellow bowl. She was in the mood to
commit sublime follies and magnificent indiscretions. For the sake of
a drive in that red wheeled gig she would have foresworn Abel at
the altar. For the ecstasy of ironing those surplices she would have
remained a spinster forever.

"That's nice butter, Judy," remarked her lover, and believed that he had
paid her a tribute peculiarly suited to the complexion of her soul.

His gaze followed the drab sweep of her hair, which was combed straight
back from her forehead. Her eyes were l