There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk into the pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow.  Sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in reality laughing at Kester’s futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or the occasional kick.  The frosty air was mellowed by the warm and odorous breath of the cattle—­breath that hung about the place in faint misty clouds.  There was only a dim light; such as it was, it was not dearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped.

As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, ‘Quiet wi’ thee, wench!  Theere now, she’s a beauty, if she’ll stand still.  There’s niver sich a cow i’ t’ Riding; if she’ll only behave hersel’.  She’s a bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere’s a pretty!’

‘Why, Kester,’ laughed Sylvia, ‘thou’rt asking her for her milk wi’ as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!’

‘Hey, lass!’ said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines and folds.  ‘An’ how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin’ about it?  That’s tellin’.  Some un’s been tryin’ it on thee.’

‘There’s niver a one been so impudent,’ said Sylvia, reddening and tossing her head a little; ’I’d like to see ’em try me!’

‘Well, well!’ said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning, ’thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou’s a good lass, may-be thy turn ’ll come and they ‘ll try it.’

’I wish thou’d talk of what thou’s some knowledge on, Kester, i’stead of i’ that silly way,’ replied Sylvia.

’Then a mun talk no more ‘bout women, for they’re past knowin’, an’ druv e’en King Solomon silly.’

At this moment Charley stepped in.  Sylvia gave a little start and dropped her ball of worsted.  Kester made as though absorbed in his task of cajoling Black Nell; but his eyes and ears were both vigilant.

’I was going into the house, but I saw yo’r mother asleep, and I didn’t like to waken her, so I just came on here.  Is yo’r father to the fore?’

‘No,’ said Sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if he could have heard the way in which she and Kester had been talking, and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger against herself.  ’Father is gone to Winthrop about some pigs as he’s heerd on.  He’ll not be back till seven o’clock or so.’