‘Look yo’ at her!’ exclaimed Kester to Charley, as he adjusted the fragrant pails on the yoke.  ’She thinks she’s missus a ready, and she’s allays for carrying in t’ milk since t’ rhumatiz cotched my shouther i’ t’ back end; and when she says “Yea,” it’s as much as my heed’s worth to say “Nay."’

And along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stones of the rambling farmyard, behind the buildings, did Sylvia trip, safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating of white snow, and in many places was so slippery as to oblige Kinraid to linger near Kester, the lantern-bearer.  Kester did not lose his opportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words.

’She’s a good wench—­a good wench as iver was—­an come on a good stock, an’ that’s summat, whether in a cow or a woman.  A’ve known her from a baby; she’s a reet down good un.’

By this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as Sylvia had unladen herself, and was striking a light with flint and tinder.  The house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air, although the kitchen into which they entered contained only a raked and slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the immense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs.  To this pan Kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it round with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashioned machinery.  Kinraid stood between Kester and the door into the dairy, through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk.  He half wished to conciliate Kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by a force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went.  Kester read his mind.

‘Let alone, let alone,’ said he; ‘pigs’ vittle takes noan such dainty carryin’ as milk.  A may set it down an’ niver spill a drop; she’s noan fit for t’ serve swine, nor yo’ other, mester; better help her t’ teem t’ milk.’

So Kinraid followed the light—­his light—­into the icy chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that Sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans.  In his haste to help her, Charley took up one of the pails.

’Eh? that’n ‘s to be strained.  Yo’ have a’ the cow’s hair in.  Mother’s very particular, and cannot abide a hair.’

So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she—­but not before he—­was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it.

‘There!’ said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; ’now yo’ll know how to do it next time.’

‘I wish next time was to come now,’ said Kinraid; but she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him.  He followed her to her side of the dairy.  ‘I’ve but a short memory, can yo’ not show me again how t’ hold t’ strainer?’