‘No,’ said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers.  ’But there’s no need to tell me yo’ve getten a short memory.’

‘Why? what have I done? how dun you know it?’

‘Last night,’ she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such like.

‘Well!’ said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it, if his conjecture were right.  ‘Last night—­what?’

‘Oh, yo’ know!’ said she, as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a corner.

‘No; tell me,’ persisted he.

‘Well,’ said she, ‘if yo’ will have it, I think yo’ showed yo’d but a short memory when yo’ didn’t know me again, and yo’ were five times at this house last winter, and that’s not so long sin’.  But I suppose yo’ see a vast o’ things on yo’r voyages by land or by sea, and then it’s but natural yo’ should forget.’  She wished she could go on talking, but could not think of anything more to say just then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed upon her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield—­to make it a little less personal.  This was not his wish, however.  In a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own despite, he said,—­

‘Do yo’ think that can ever happen again, Sylvia?’

She was quite silent; almost trembling.  He repeated the question as if to force her to answer.  Driven to bay, she equivocated.

’What happen again?  Let me go, I dunno what yo’re talking about, and I’m a’most numbed wi’ cold.’

For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window, and the ice was already forming on the milk.  Kinraid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young women, warm; but he paused before he dared put his arm round Sylvia; she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her very innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check.  So he contented himself with saying,—­

‘I’ll let yo’ go into t’ warm kitchen if yo’ll tell me if yo’ think I can ever forget yo’ again.’

She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm.  He enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showed she felt its significance.  Her pure eyes looked steadily into his; nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her afraid.  They were like two children defying each other; each determined to conquer.  At last she unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron,—­

‘Yo’ll have to go home sometime.’

‘Not for a couple of hours yet,’ said he; ’and yo’ll be frozen first; so yo’d better say if I can ever forget yo’ again, without more ado.’