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. Which something he presently discovered must be
a pool of size among the rocks, for after a brief retiral, Nance behind
a boulder and Bernel into a black hollow, they came out again, she
lightly clad in fluttering white and Bernel in nothing at all, and with
a shout of delight dived out of sight into the pool below.

He could hear their shouts and laughter echoed back by the huge
overhanging rocks. He saw them climb out again and sit sunning