"So we watched our chance an' slipped out--an' I guess, for all our high ways, we was all three wonderin' inside, was we rilly doin' right. You know your doubts come thick when there's a noise in the entry. But Mis' Sykes acted as brave as two, an' it was her shut the door to behind us. "An' there, right by that stone just outside the entry o' the church, set Mis' Timothy Toplady, _milkin' her Jersey cow_. "We could just see her, dim, by the light o' the transom. She was on the secunt pail, an' that was two-thirds full. She hed her back toward us, an' she didn't hear us. She set all wrapped up in a shawl, a basket o' cups side of her, an' the Jersey standin' there, quiet an' demure. An' beyond, in the cut an' movin' acrost the Pump pasture, it was thick with lanterns. "But before we three'd hed time to burst out like we wanted to, we sort o' scrooched back again. Because on the other side o' the cow we heard Timothy Toplady's voice. He'd just got there, some breathless, an' with him, we see, was Eppleby. "'Amanda,' says Timothy, 'what in the Dominion o' Canady air you doin'?' "'I shouldn't think you would know,' says Mis' Toplady, short. 'You don't do enough of it.' "She hed him there. Timothy always _will_ go down to the Dick Dasher an' shirk the chores. "'Amanda,' says Timothy, 'you've disobeyed me flat-footed.' "'No such thing,' s'she, milkin' away like mad for fear he'd use force; 'I ain't carried a drop o' milk here. I've drove it,' she says. "Timothy groaned. "'Milkin' in the church,' he says. "'No, sir,' says Amanda, back at him; 'I'm outside on the sod, an' you know it.' "An' then my hopes sort o' riz, because I thought I heard Eppleby Holcomb laugh soft--sort of a half-an'-half chuckle. Like he'd looked under the situation an' see it wasn't alike on both sides. An' 't the same time Mis' Toplady, she changed her way, an',-- "'Timothy,' s'she, 'you hungry?' "'I'm nigh starved,' says Timothy. 'It must be eight o'clock,' s'e, 'but I ain't the heart to think o' that.' "'No,' s'she, 'so you ain't. Not with them poor babies in there hungrier'n you be an' nowheres to go.' "With that she got done milkin' an' stood up an' picked up her two pails--we could smell the sweet, warm milk from where we was. "'Timothy,' s'she, 'the worst sacrilege that's done in _this_ world is when folks turns their backs on any little bit of a chance that the Lord gives 'em to do good in, like He told 'em. Who was it, I'd like to know, said, "Suffer little children"? Who was it said, "Feed my lambs"? No "when" or "where" about that. Just _do it_. An' no occasion to hem an' haw about it, either. The least you can do for your share in this, as I see it, is to keep your silence and drive the cow back home. The oven's full o' bake' sweet potatoes an' they must be just nearin' done.'