The butter had just come after a long churning. Beads of perspiration glistened on Phœbe's rosy face and little strands of hair curled damply on her forehead. Derek had come to the kitchen for a drink of buttermilk. She got a glass from the dresser and filled it to the brim.
"Look at the bits of yellow butter floatin' about," she said, "that's what I call good buttermilk."
"Splendid," said Derek, taking a draught. "You're a fine butter-maker, Phœbe."
"If I wasn't, Mrs. Machin'd take my head off. She's an old terror, she is. This'ud be a pretty hard place for a gal if it wasn't for the lads."
"Come now, Phœbe, you have an easy time of it. I see you playing about by the hour."
She tossed her head. "Aye, but think of the work I've done before I play! I wouldn't think you'd be so hard on me, Mr. Vale."
"Hard on you, Phœbe? No . . . I like you too well. You're a good girl."
She came close to him, and tilted her chin. "Will you untie the knot in my sunbonnet? It's fallen down my back, and the knot's fair chokin' me." He set down his empty glass and fumbled with the knot against her milk-white, softly throbbing throat. "Oh, I couldn't deny you anything, Mr. Vale," she panted, "not if it was ever so."
"Well," he said, cheerfully, loosening the knot, "give me another glass of buttermilk, then, unless you're saving it for Hughie."
"Hughie!" Scornfully. "What do I care about Hughie, when you're by?" She turned the tap of the churn and refilled his glass. There was a soft knocking on the screen door. Beulah's round face was pressed against the netting.
"Say, Phœbe," she said, solemnly, "the ole man's dead."
