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 “Mornin’!” said the boy, as he in turn approached. “Up early, you are, ain’t you?” His voice was now incomparably gentle, his blue eyes shone with friendliness. He had driven Millicent in from the railway the day before; they were, too, old acquaintances. “Beautiful mornin’, ain’t it?” he went on eagerly, as though he longed above all things to speak, and feared to lose the chance of doing so. “Reg’lar germ of a day, I calls it.”

“It’s glorious,” Millicent agreed. “And how are you getting on, Ken?”

“Me? Oh, fair to middlin’,” answered Ken, scratching his hatless head as though puzzled why any one should bother to ask. “’Cep’ for these here jolly cows, which—look here now, Miss Milly, they’re about enough to make a parson swear an’ burn his books—my word, that they are! Old Ruru, now! My word, she’s about the unmannerliest beast God ever put grass into; knocked me over yesterday, she did, flat as I was long—an’ the bucket with me; an’ me with a clean shirt on me shoulders, an’ likin’ to get dirty by degrees. I say, though! you wasn’t comin’ to try your hand again at milkin’, like, I s’pose?” he added, with a sudden lively accent of hope.

“No, indeed, I was not,” replied Millicent, with heartfelt thankfulness—milking is an art which many practise but few, very few, love. “And I’m not going to delay you, either, Ken,” she added, with edge.

Ken sighed. “It’s a poor job, cowbangin’ all alone,” he said wistfully. But he took the hint, and moved on after his charges, pulling to the gate behind him with a bang, and spurring his horse hard