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Murray captured a milking stool and rounded up another Jersey. Before sitting down he seemed struck with an idea.

“My name is Arnold Murray. I board at Sweetbriar Cottage, next farm to Orchard Knob. That makes us near neighbours.”

“I suppose it does,” said Mollie.

Murray mentally decided that her voice was the sweetest he had ever heard. He was glad he had arranged his cow at such an angle that he could study her profile. It was amazing that Mrs. Palmer’s niece should have such a profile. It looked as if centuries of fine breeding were responsible for it.

“What a morning!” he said enthusiastically. “It harks back to the days when earth was young. They must have had just such mornings as this in Eden.”

“Do you always get up so early?” asked Mollie practically.

“Always,” said Murray without a blush. Then–“But no, that is a fib, and I cannot tell fibs to you. The truth is your tribute. I never get up early. It was fate that roused me and brought me here this morning. The morning is a miracle–and you, I might suppose you were born of the sunrise, if Mrs. Palmer hadn’t told me all about you.”

“What did she tell you about me?” asked Mollie, changing cows. Murray discovered that she was tall and that the big blue print apron shrouded a singularly graceful figure.

“She said you were the best-looking girl in Bruce county. I have seen very few of the girls in Bruce county, but I know she is right.”

“That compliment is not nearly so pretty as the sunrise one,” said Mollie reflectively. “Mrs. Palmer has told me things about you,” she added.

“Curiosity knows no gender,” hinted Murray.

“She said you were good-looking and lazy and different from other people.”

“All compliments,” said Murray in a gratified tone.

“Lazy?”

“Certainly. Laziness is a virtue in these strenuous days, I was not born with it, but I have painstakingly acquired it, and I am proud of my success. I have time to enjoy life.”

“I think that I like you,” said Mollie.

“You have the merit of being able to enter into a situation,” he assured her.

When the last Jersey was milked they carried the pails down to the spring where the creamers were sunk and strained the milk into them. Murray washed the pails and Mollie wiped them and set them in a gleaming row on the shelf under a big maple.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are not going yet,” said Murray resolutely. “The time I saved you in milking three cows belongs to me. We will spend it in a walk along the pond shore. I will show you a path I have discovered under the beeches. It is just wide enough for two. Come.”

He took her hand and drew her through the copse into a green lane, where the ferns grew thickly on either side and the pond waters plashed dreamily below them. He kept her hand in his as they went down the path, and she did not try to withdraw it. About them was the great, pure silence of the morning, faintly threaded with caressing sounds–croon of birds, gurgle of waters, sough of wind. The spirit of youth and love hovered over them and they spoke no word.

When they finally came out on a little green nook swimming in early sunshine and arched over by maples, with the wide shimmer of the pond before it and the gold dust of blossoms over the grass, the girl drew a long breath of delight.

“It is a morning left over from Eden, isn’t it?” said Murray.

“Yes,” said Mollie softly.

Murray bent toward her. “You are Eve,” he said. “You are the only woman in the world–for me. Adam must have told Eve just what he thought about her the first time he saw her. There were no conventionalities in Eden–and people could not have taken long to make up their minds. We are in Eden just now. One can say what he thinks in Eden without being ridiculous. You are divinely fair, Eve. Your eyes are stars of the morning–your cheek has the flush it stole from the sunrise-your lips are redder than the roses of paradise. And I love you, Eve.”