was weakening, for Champney heard again the rattle of
the pails and the stool; then a swish of starched petticoat and a cooing
"There, there, Bess."

He opened the gate noiselessly and closing it behind him walked down the
lane. The golden light of the June sunset was barred, where it lay upon
the brilliant green of the young grass, with the long shadows of the
apple-tree trunks. He looked between the thick foliage of the
low-hanging branches to the milking shed. The two were there. Octavius
was looking on dubiously; Aileen was coaxing the giant Holstein mother
to stand aside at a more convenient angle for milking.

"Hold her tail, Tave," was the next command.

She seated herself on the stool and laid her cheek against the warm,
shining black flank; her hands manipulated the rosy teats; then she
began to sing:

"O what are you seeking my pretty colleen,
So sadly, tell me now!"--
"O'er mountain and plain
I'm searching in vain
Kind sir, for my Kerry cow."

The milk, now drumming steadily into the pail, served for a running
accompaniment to the next verses.

"Is she black as the night with a star of white
Above her bonny brow?
And as clever to clear
The dykes as a deer?"--
"That's just my own Kerry cow."

"Then cast your eye into that field of wheat
She's there as large as life."--
"My bitter disgrace!
Howe'er shall I face
The farmer and his wife?"

What a voice! And what a picture she made leaning caressingly against
the charmed and patient Bess! She was so slight, yet round and
supple--strong, too, with the strength of perfect health! The thick
fluffed black hair was rolled away from her face and gathered into a low
knot in the nape of her neck. Her dress cut low at the throat enhanced
the white purity of her face and the slim round grace of her neck which
showed to advantage against the ebony flank of the mother of many milky
ways. Her lips were red and full; the nose was a saucy stub; the eyes he
could not see; they were downcast, intent upon her filling pail and the
rising creamy foam; but he knew them to be an Irish blue-gray.

[Illustration: "What a picture she made leaning caressingly against the
charmed and patient Bess"]

"Since the farmer's unwed you've no cause to dread
From his wife, you must allow.
And for kisses three--
'Tis myself is he--
The farmer will free your cow."

The song ceased; the