He carried with him--as a delightful memory of her, though not without
its cloud--the pretty picture she made when he came upon her one day in
the orchard, milking--for, strictly as the Sabbath may be observed, cows
must still be milked on a Sunday, not being endowed manna-like, with the
gift of miraculous double production on a Saturday.
Her head was pressed into her favourite beast's side, and she was
crooning soothingly to it as the white jets ping-panged into the
frothing pail, and he stood for a moment watching her unseen.
Then the cow slowly turned her head towards him, considered him gravely
for a moment, decided he was unnecessary and whisked her tail
impatiently. Nance's lullaby stopped, she looked round with a reproving
frown, and he went silently on his way.
It was another Sunday afternoon that, as he lay in the bracken on the
slope of a headland, he saw two slim figures racing down a bare slope on
the opposite side of a wide blue gulf, with joyous chatter, and
recognized Nance and Bernel.
They disappeared and he felt lonely. Then they came picking their way
round a black spur below, and stood for a minute or two looking down at
something beneath them.
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