ime
she looked, it seemed a new thing come to life. Every piece of
butter became this strange, vital emblem.

She showed it to her mother and father.

"That is beautiful," said her mother, a little light coming
on to her face.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted. "Why,
what sort of a bird does he call it?"

And this was the question put by the customers during the
next weeks.

"What sort of a bird do you call that, as you've got
on th' butter?"

When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy to
show him.

"Do you like it?" he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice that
always sounded strange, re-echoing in the dark places of her
being.

They very rarely touched each other. They liked to be alone
together, near to each other, but there was still a distance
between them.

In the cool dairy the candle-light lit on the large, white
surfaces of the cream pans. He turned his head sharply. It was
so cool and remote in there, so remote. His mouth was open in a
little, strained laugh. She stood with her head bent, turned
aside. He wanted to go near to her. He had kissed her once.
Again his eye rested on the round blocks of butter, where the
emblematic bird lifted its breast from the shadow cast by the
candle flame. What was restraining him? Her breast was near him;
his head lifted like an eagle's. She did not move. Suddenly,
with an incredibly quick, delicate movement, he put his arms
round her and drew her to him. It was quick, cleanly done, like
a bird that swoops and sinks close, closer.

He was kissing her throat. She turned and looked at him. Her
eyes were dark and flowing with fire. His eyes were hard and
bright with a fierce purpose and gladness, like a hawk's. She
felt him flying into the dark space of her flames, like a brand,
like a gleaming hawk.

They had looked at each other, and seen each other strange,
yet near, very near, like a hawk stooping, swooping, dropping
into a flame of darkness. So she took the candle and they went
back to the kitchen.

They went on in this way for some time, always coming
together, but rarely touching, very seldom did they kiss. And
then, often, it was merely a touch of the lips, a sign. But her
eyes began to waken with a constant fire, she paused often in
the midst of her transit, as if to recollect something, or to
discover something.

And his face became sombre, intent, he did not really hear
what was said to him.

One evening in Augu