“My name is Sebastian.”

“Oh, all right; reckon you can milk her under that name, too.”

When they came back, the Colonel was still there exchanging views about Alaska with Sukey, and with Sebastian about the bull.  Sister Winifred came hurrying over the snow to the cow-house with a little tin pail in her hand.

“Ah, but you are slow, Sebastian!” she called out almost petulantly.  “Good-morning,” she said to the others, and with a quick clutch at a respectful and submissive demeanour, she added, half aside:  “What do you think, Father Brachet?  They forgot that baby because he is good and sleeps late.  They drink up all the milk.”

“Ah, there is very little now.”

“Very little, Father,” said Sebastian, returning to the task from which the Colonel’s conversation had diverted him.

“I put aside some last night, and they used it.  I send you to bring me only a little drop”—­she was by Sebastian now, holding out the small pail, unmindful of the others, who were talking stock—­“and you stay, and stay—­”

“Give me your can.”  The Boy took it from her, and held it inside the big milk-pail, so that the thin stream struck it sharply.

“There; it is enough.”

Her shawl had fallen.  The Colonel gathered it up.

“I will carry the milk back for you,” said the Boy, noticing how red and cold the slim hands were.  “Your fingers will be frostbitten if you don’t wrap them up.”  She pulled the old shawl closely round her, and set a brisk pace back to the Sisters’ House.

“I must go carefully or I might slip, and if I spilt the milk—­”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that!”

She paused suddenly, and then went on, but more slowly than before.  A glaze had formed on the hard-trodden path, and one must needs walk warily.  Once she looked back with anxiety, and, seeing that the precious milk was being carried with due caution, her glance went gratefully to the Boy’s face.  He felt her eyes.

“I’m being careful,” he laughed, a little embarrassed and not at first lifting his bent head.  When, after an instant, he did so, he found the beautiful calm eyes full upon him.  But no self-consciousness there.  She turned away, gentle and reflective, and was walking on when some quick summons seemed to reach her.  She stopped quite still again, as if seized suddenly by a detaining hand.  Her own hands dropped straight at her sides, and the rusty shawl hung free.  A second time she turned, the Boy thought to him again; but as he glanced up, wondering, he saw that the fixed yet serene look went past him like a homing-dove.  A neglected, slighted feeling came over him.  She wasn’t thinking of him the least in the world, nor even of the milk he was at such pains to carry for her.  What was she staring at?  He turned his head over his right shoulder.  Nothing.  No one.  As he came slowly on, he kept glancing at her.  She, still with upturned face, stood there in the attitude of an obedient child receiving admonition.  One cold little hand fluttered up to her silver cross.  Ah!  He turned again, understanding now the drift, if not the inner meaning, of that summons that had come.