It isn't
scriptural. It isn't orthodox. I am surprised at you, Carol. It must
be some more Methodism cropping out. I never knew a Presbyterian to do
it."
"And as for milk--"
"There you go again,--milk. Worse and worse. Yesterday I had milk
toast, and milk custard, and fresh milk, and buttermilk. And here you
come at me again first thing to-day. Milk!"
"Seven whole quarts have arrived this morning,--bless their darling old
hearts."
"The cows?"
"The parishioners," Carol explained patiently. "Ever since the doctor
said fresh milk and eggs, we've been flooded with milk and--"
"Pelted with eggs. But you can't pelt any sixty-four eggs down me."
"David," she said reproachfully, "I must confess that you don't sound
very sick. The doctor says, 'Take him west,' and I am taking you if I
ever get rid of these eggs. But I do think it would be more
appropriate to take you to a vaudeville show where you might coin some
of this extravagant humor. There's a market for it, you know."
"Here comes Mrs. Sater, with a covered basket," announced David,
glancing from the window. "I just wonder if the dear kind woman is
bringing me a few fresh eggs. You know the doctor advised me to eat
fresh eggs, and--"
Carol clutched her curly head in despair.
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