I had nothing particular to say to this, though I was thinking a great deal. From time to time I stole a look at my companion. His coat was black, and so was his waistcoat; neckcloth he had none, his strong full throat being bare above the snow-white shirt. He wore drab-coloured knee-breeches, grey worsted stockings (I thought I knew the maker), and strong-nailed shoes. He carried his hat in his hand, as if he liked to feel the coming breeze lifting his hair. After a while, I saw that the father took hold of the daughter’s hand, and so, they holding each other, went along towards home. We had to cross a lane. In it were two little children, one lying prone on the grass in a passion of crying, the other standing stock still, with its finger in its mouth, the large tears slowly rolling down its cheeks for sympathy. The cause of their distress was evident; there was a broken brown pitcher, and a little pool of spilt milk on the road. “Hollo! Hollo! What’s all this?” said the minister. “Why, what have you been about, Tommy,” lifting the little petticoated lad, who was lying sobbing, with one vigorous arm. Tommy looked at him with surprise in his round eyes, but no affright—they were evidently old acquaintances. “Mammy’s jug!” said he, at last, beginning to cry afresh. “Well! and will crying piece mammy’s jug, or pick up spilt milk? How did you manage it, Tommy?” “He” (jerking his head at the other) “and me was running races.” “Tommy said he could beat me,” put in the other. “Now, I wonder what will make you two silly lads mind, and not run races again with a pitcher of milk between you,” said the minister, as if musing. “I might flog you, and so save mammy the trouble; for I dare say she’ll do it if I don’t.” The fresh burst of whimpering from both showed the probability of this. “Or I might take you to the Hope Farm, and give you some more milk; but then you’d be running races again, and my milk would follow that to the ground, and make another white pool. I think the flogging would be best—don’t you?” “We would never run races no more,” said the elder of the two. “Then you’d not be boys; you’d be angels.” “No, we shouldn’t.” “Why not?” They looked into each other’s eyes for an answer to this puzzling question. At length, one said, “Angels is dead folk.” “Come; we’ll not get too deep into theology. What do you think of my lending you a tin can with a lid to carry the milk home in? That would not break, at any rate; though I would not answer for the milk not spilling if you ran races. That’s it!” He had dropped his daughter’s hand, and now held out each of his to the little fellows. Phillis and I followed, and listened to the prattle which the minister’s companions now poured out to him, and which he was evidently enjoying. At a certain point, there was a sudden burst of the tawny, ruddy-evening landscape. The minister turned round and quoted a line or two of Latin.