through the trap-door, and shut himself inside, just as the young woman’s mother busted into the milk-house.  ‘The villain—­where is he?’ says she.  ’I’ll claw his face for’n, let me only catch him!’ Well, she hunted about everywhere, ballyragging Jack by side and by seam, Jack lying a’most stifled inside the churn, and the poor maid—­or young woman rather—­standing at the door crying her eyes out.  I shall never forget it, never!  ’Twould have melted a marble stone!  But she couldn’t find him nowhere at all.”

The dairyman paused, and one or two words of comment came from the listeners.

Dairyman Crick’s stories often seemed to be ended when they were not really so, and strangers were betrayed into premature interjections of finality; though old friends knew better.  The narrator went on—­

“Well, how the old woman should have had the wit to guess it I could never tell, but she found out that he was inside that there churn.  Without saying a word she took hold of the winch (it was turned by handpower then), and round she swung him, and Jack began to flop about inside.  ‘O Lard! stop the churn! let me out!’ says he, popping out his head.  ‘I shall be churned into a pummy!’ (He was a cowardly chap in his heart, as such men mostly be).  ’Not till ye make amends for ravaging her virgin innocence!’ says the old woman.  ’Stop the churn you old witch!’ screams he.  ’You call me old witch, do ye, you deceiver!’ says she, ‘when ye ought to ha’ been calling me mother-law these last five months!’ And on went the churn, and Jack’s bones rattled round again.  Well, none of us ventured to interfere; and at last ‘a promised to make it right wi’ her.  ’Yes—­I’ll be as good as my word!’ he said.  And so it ended that day.”

While the listeners were smiling their comments there was a quick movement behind their backs, and they looked round.  Tess, pale-faced, had gone to the door.

“How warm ’tis to-day!” she said, almost inaudibly.

It was warm, and none of them connected her withdrawal with the reminiscences of the dairyman.  He went forward and opened the door for her, saying with tender raillery—­

“Why, maidy” (he frequently, with unconscious irony, gave her this pet name), “the prettiest milker I’ve got in my dairy; you mustn’t get so fagged as this at the first breath of summer weather, or we shall be finely put to for want of ’ee by dog-days, shan’t we, Mr Clare?”

“I was faint—­and—­I think I am better out o’ doors,” she said mechanically; and disappeared outside.

Fortunately for her the milk in the revolving churn at that moment changed its squashing for a decided flick-flack.

“’Tis coming!” cried Mrs Crick, and the attention of all was called off from Tess.