for herself. It seemed to her, when she chose Aaron Bade, that in his
company, life would be surprising and delightful. She expected to see
something of the world--he spoke of it so much. But she was mistaken.
For Aaron's travels were all of the mind. And she soon discovered that
the more he talked, the more there remained for her to do. Thus her
hopes died away; between the stove and the chickens, and what with
cleaning, washing, sweeping and dusting, she rarely found time nowadays
for more than a shake of her head, never very pretty, and at last no
longer young, at the thought of what she had looked for, what she had
meant to find. In short, from hopeful girl, Margaret Bade was,
sensibly enough, turned practical woman; and when, on clear afternoons,
with his work still to do, Aaron would take his flute down into the
fields, she did his chores, as well as her own, with the wise remark
that after all, they had to be done.

Nevertheless, when the dishes were washed--when the shadows of evening
crept in past the lamp, no longer able to exclude them, she began to
feel lonely and sad. And as the notes of Aaron's flute mingled with
the night sounds, the chirp of crickets, the hum of insects, she felt,
rather than thought, "Life is so much spilt milk. And all that comes
of fancies, is Aaron's flute, playing down there in the pasture."

It was to this family that Mr. Jeminy came in the chilly dawn, on his
way, apparently, to the ends of the earth, and, after breakfast, fell
asleep in the hayloft, leaving them both gaping with pleasure and
curiosity. For he came, Aaron had to admit, like a tramp; but spoke,
Margaret thought, like the Gospels. "He's from roundabout," she said;
"I hope he doesn't think to try and sell us anything. Men with
something to sell always talk like the minister first."