It was still early, and Holcroft was under the impression that Alida would sleep late after the severe fatigues of the preceding day.  He therefore continued his work at the barn sufficiently long to give his wife time for her little surprise.  She was not long in finding and laying her hands on the simple materials for breakfast.  A ham hung in the pantry and beneath it was a great basket of eggs, while the flour barrel stood in the corner.  Biscuits were soon in the oven, eggs conjured into an omelet, and the ham cut into delicate slices, instead of great coarse steaks.

Remembering Mrs. Mumpson's failure with the coffee, she made it a trifle strong and boiled the milk that should temper without cooling it.  The biscuits rose like her own spirits, the omelet speedily began to take on color like her own flushed face as she busied herself about the stove.

Everything was nearly ready when she saw Holcroft coming toward the house with two pails of milk.  He took them to the large dairy room under the parlor and then came briskly to the kitchen.

She stood, screened by the door as he entered, then stopped and stared at the table all set and at the inviting breakfast on the stove.

Seeing Alida's half-smiling, half-questioning face, seeking his approval, he exclaimed, "Well, you HAVE stolen a march on me!  I supposed you were asleep yet."

"I felt so much stronger and better when I awoke that I thought you wouldn't mind if I came down and made a beginning."

"You call this a beginning do you?  Such a breakfast as this before seven in the morning?  I hope you haven't overtaxed yourself."

"No, only a little of just the right kind of tired feeling."

"Haven't you left anything for me to do?"

"Perhaps.  You will know when I've put all on the table.  What I've prepared is ready."

"Well, this is famous.  I'll go and wash and fix up a little and be right down."

When Holcroft returned, he looked at her curiously, for he felt that he, too, was getting acquainted.  Her thin face was made more youthful by color; a pleased look was in her blue eyes, and a certain neatness and trimness about her dress to which he had not been accustomed.  He scanned the table wonderingly, for things were not put upon it at haphazard; the light biscuits turned their brown cheeks invitingly toward him,--she had arranged that they should do that,--the ham was crisp, not sodden, and the omelet as russet as a November leaf. "This is a new dish," he said, looking at it closely. "What do you call it?"

"Omelet.  Perhaps you won't like it, but mother used to be very fond of it."

"No matter.  We'll have it if you like it and it brings you pleasant thoughts of your mother."  Then he took a good sip of coffee and set the cup down again as he had before under the Mumpson regime, but with a very different expression.  She looked anxiously at him, but was quickly reassured. "I thought I knew how to make coffee, but I find I don't.  I never tasted anything so good as that.  How DO you make it?"

"Just as mother taught me."

"Well, well!  And you call this making a beginning?  I just wish I could give Tom Watterly a cup of this coffee.  It would set his mind at rest.  'By jocks!' he would say, 'isn't this better than going it alone?'"

She looked positively happy under this sweet incense to a housewifely heart.  She was being paid in the coin that women love best, and it was all the more precious to her because she had never expected to receive it again.

He did like the omelet; he liked everything, and, after helping her liberally, cleared the table, then said he felt equal to doing two men's work.  Before going out to his work, he lighted a fire on the parlor hearth and left a good supply of fuel beside it. "Now, Alida," he remarked humorously, "I've already found out that you have one fault that you and I will have to watch against.  You are too willing.  I fear you've gone beyond your strength this morning.  I don't want you to do a thing today except to get the meals, and remember, I can help in this if you don't feel well.  There is a fire in the parlor, and I've wheeled the lounge up by it.  Take it quietly today, and perhaps tomorrow I can begin to show you about butter-making."

"I will do as you wish," she replied, "but please show me a little more where things are before you go out."

This he did and added, "You'll find the beef and some other things on a swing-shelf in the cellar.  The potato bins are down there, too.  But don't try to get up much dinner.  What comes quickest and easiest will suit me.  I'm a little backward with my work and must plow all day for oats.  It's time they were in.  After such a breakfast, I feel as if I had eaten a bushel myself."

A few moments later she saw him going up the lane, that continued on past the house, with his stout team and the plow, and she smiled as she heard him whistling "Coronation" with levity, as some good people would have thought.

Plowing and planting time had come and under happier auspices, apparently, than he had ever imagined possible again.  With the lines about his neck, he began with a sidehill plow at the bottom of a large, sloping field which had been in corn the previous year, and the long, straight furrows increased from a narrow strip to a wide, oblong area. "Ah," said he in tones of strong satisfaction, "the ground crumbles freely; it's just in the right condition.  I'll quit plowing this afternoon in time to harrow and sow all the ground that's ready.  Then, so much'll be all done and well done.  It's curious how seed, if it goes into the ground at the right time and in the right way, comes right along and never gets discouraged.  I aint much on scientific farming, but I've always observed that when I sow or plant as soon as the ground is ready, I have better luck."

The horses seemed infected by his own brisk spirit, stepping along without urging, and the farmer was swept speedily into the full, strong current of his habitual interests.

One might have supposed the recent events would have the uppermost place in his thoughts, but this was not true.  He rather dwelt upon them as the unexpectedly fortunate means to the end now attained.  This was his life, and he was happy in the thought that his marriage promised to make this life not merely possible, but prosperous and full of quiet content.

The calling of the born agriculturist, like that of the fisherman, has in it the element of chance and is therefore full of moderate yet lasting excitement.  Holcroft knew that, although he did his best, much would depend on the weather and other causes.  He had met with disappointments in his crops, and had also achieved what he regarded as fine successes, although they would have seemed meager on a Western prairie.  Every spring kindled anew his hopefulness and anticipation.  He watched the weather with the interested and careful scrutiny of a sailor, and it must be admitted that his labor and its results depended more on natural causes than upon his skill and the careful use of the fertilizers.  He was a farmer of the old school, the traditions received from his father controlled him in the main.  Still, his good common sense and long experience stood him fairly well in the place of science and knowledge of improved methods, and he was better equipped than the man who has in his brain all that the books can teach, yet is without experience.  Best of all, he had inherited and acquired an abiding love of the soil; he never could have been content except in its cultivation; he was therefore in the right condition to assimilate fuller knowledge and make the most of it.

He knew well enough when it was about noon.  From long habit he would have known had the sky been overcast, but now his glance at the sun was like looking at a watch.  Dusty and begrimed he followed his team to the barn, slipped from them their headstalls and left them to amuse themselves with a little hay while they cooled sufficiently for heartier food. "Well now," he mused, "I wonder what that little woman has for dinner?  Another new dish, like enough.  Hanged if I'm fit to go in the house, and she looking so trim and neat.  I think I'll first take a souse in the brook," and he went up behind the house where an unfailing stream gurgled swiftly down from the hills.  At the nearest point a small basin had been hollowed out, and as he approached he saw two or three speckled trout darting away through the limpid water.

"Aha!" he muttered, "glad you reminded me.  When SHE'S stronger, she may enjoy catching our supper some afternoon.  I must think of all the little things I can to liven her up so she won't get dull.  It's curious how interested I am to know how she's got along and what she has for dinner.  And to think that, less than a week ago, I used to hate to go near the house!"

As he entered the hall on his way to his room, that he might make himself more presentable, an appetizing odor greeted him and Alida smiled from the kitchen door as she said, "Dinner's ready."

Apparently she had taken him at his word, as she had prepared little else than an Irish stew, yet when he had partaken of it, he thought he would prefer Irish stews from that time onward indefinitely. "Where did you learn to cook, Alida?" he asked.

"Mother wasn't very strong and her appetite often failed her.  Then, too, we hadn't much to spend on our table so we tried to make simple things taste nice.  Do you like my way of preparing t............