Sylvia's Lovers

'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.