"There, Sophia; I've had to pay a shilling for a cupful, but I've got
some milk."

"I should have thought you would have been surer to get good milk at a
larger station, mamma." She did not turn as she spoke, perhaps for fear
of waking the sleeping baby.

The other, who was the infant's mother, was rapidly tying a shawl round
her head and shoulders. She was a little stout woman, who in middle age
had retained her brightness of eye and complexion. Her features were
regular, and her little nose had enough suggestion of the eagle's beak
in its form to preserve her countenance from insignificance.

"Oh, my dear," she returned, "as to the milk--the young man looked quite
clean, I assure you; and then such a large country as the cows have to
roam in!"

Having delivered herself of this energetic whisper, she subsided below
the level of the seat back, leaving Sophia to sit and wonder in a drowsy
muse whether the mother supposed that the value of a cow's milk would be
increased if, like Io, she could prance across a continent.

Sophia Rexford sat upright, with the large baby in her arms and a bigger
child leaning on her shoulder. Both children were more or less restless;
but their sister was not restless, she sat quite still. The attitude of
her tall figure had the composure and strength in it which do not belong
to first youth. Hers was a fine face; it might even be called beautiful;
but no one now would call it pretty--the skin was too colourless, the
expression too earnest.