The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. Ic
XI.
July i6.
We took a trip to-day to East Homet
for butter. Neither angels nor principalities
could convince Phoebe that any butter but
"Stephen David's" might, could, would, or
should be used in this family. So to Mr. Stephen David's, a journey of four miles, I meekly
betake myself at stated periods in the domestic
year, burdened with directions about firkins
and half-firkins, pounds and half-pounds, salt
and no salt, churning and "working-over";
some of which I remember and some of which
I forget, and to all of which Phcebe considers
me sublimely incapable of attending.
The afternoon was perfect, and we took
things leisurely, letting the reins swing from
the hook, -an arrangement to which Mr
Tripp's old gray was entirely agreeable,and, leaning back against the buggy-cushions
wound along among the strong, sweet pinesmells, lazily talking or lazily silent, as the
spirit moved, and as only two people who