When the meal was once put upon the table, there was no need of further service, for a revolving stand in the centre of the table brought everything conveniently to hand. But still that did not prevent old June from peeping. As yet the rolling ground that surrounded the house on three sides was billowy with long grass, and showed little sign of cultivation; on either side of the steps was a wide bed of heliotrope, and another of mignonette, and a soldierly line of sweet peas and other garden annuals broke the stiffness of the path leading to the little barn that housed horse, cow, buggy, and hay under one roof. “What are you thinking of, Marjory Daw?” asked Billy, looking up from his newspaper at the face that was looking contentedly into space. Yes, Billy Kent read the newspaper at the breakfast table, as he always had done in his bachelor days. His wife would not dream of taking the responsibility of upsetting the habit; in fact, she had grown to like it, especially as he often read bits of interesting news that might otherwise have escaped her. “I was thinking of three things together,” answered Marjory, smiling, “waiting-maids, chickens, and cats.” “Do you want a waitress?” said Billy, quickly. “I was thinking at this very moment how jolly it is to be alone with ourselves, and perfect freedom of speech between us. Somehow the desire for it is always developed by eating!” “No, I do not wish one. I was thinking the same thing when you spoke. What is handing a few dishes through to June compared with having even one’s unspoken thoughts read through your back, while as for fussing and dusting up the living-room, I love it, for it gives one a chance to get acquainted with one’s things, and see if they stand the test of being either useful or beautiful. We need not use the dining room before September, and by that time we shall have decided what not to put in it.” “But how about the chickens and cats?” “I’ve made up my mind that I don’t care for them any more than waitresses. You see, Billy, I’ve decided already that we only want to grow things that are pleasant when they develop. Morning-glory seeds grow into those lovely flowers that have transformed the clothes-poles yonder (yes, they try to reach out and appropriate the clothes-line, but I give them a warning pinch now and then); and tomato and lettuce seeds turn into delicious salads; but the adorable fuzzy chicks turn to broilers that have to have their heads cut off, and a cat turns into so many kittens that they must be drowned. So we won’t have either of them after this summer. A cow will stand the test, for she will not only look well out there in the grass, but milk is such a peaceful, placid thing, it makes me sleepy even to think of the sizzing it makes in the pail when Peter milks.