Roger, who had gradually forged ahead, remained leaning over a low cottage wall until the others came up. In the yard sat a woman milking one of the pretty, soft-eyed Jersey cows, but what held Roger's fascinated attention was her milk-pail.
Instead of the ordinary tin receptacle familiar to Roger during country summers, she had an enormous copper can with a fat round body, rather small top and handle at one side like a bloated milk-jug. Over the top was tied loosely a piece of coarse cloth and on this rested a clean sea shell. Streams of milk directed into the shell slowly overflowed its edges to strain through the cloth and subside gently into the can.
"That's something of a milk pail," observed Roger approvingly.
"It's just like the hot-water jugs Annette brings in the morning," said Frances, "only ten times bigger. Wouldn't it be lovely for goldenrod and asters? I'm going to ask Mother to buy one."
"Pretty sight you'll be walking up the dock at Boston with that on your arm," jeered Roger. "It will never go in any trunk and you'll have to carry it everywhere you go. You needn't ask me to lug it, either."
"It can be crated and sent that way," said Frances calmly.
"Those hot-water jugs make me tired," Roger went on as they continued their walk. "I'm sick to death of having a quart of lukewarm water in a watering-pot dumped at my door every morning. Think of the hot water we have at home, gallons and gallons of it, steaming, day or night!"
Edith looked politely incredulous. "How can that be?" she asked. "Do you keep coals on the kitchen fire all night?"
"Coals!" snorted Roger. "All we have to do is to turn a faucet and that lights a heater and the water runs hot as long as you leave it turned on. No quart pots for us!"
"But surely," said Edith, "only very wealthy people can have luxuries like that."