reasy hands in glee; as he saw her for the third time
leaning from the bedroom window and listening to his improvised
serenade. Well, he had a bone to pick with her about his dog; that would
make things lively for a while and serve for an introduction. He reached
over to unlatch the gate. At that moment he heard Octavius' voice in
violent protest. It came from behind a group of apple trees down the
lane in the direction of the milking shed.

"Now don't go for to trying any such experiment as that, Aileen; you'll
fret the cow besides mussing your clean dress."

"I don't care; it'll wash. Now, please, do let me, Tave, just this
once."

"I tell you the cow won't give down her milk if you take hold of her.
She'll get all in a fever having a girl fooling round her." There
followed the rattle of pails and a stool.

"Now, look here, Octavius Buzzby, who knows best about a cow, you or I?"

"Well, seeing as I've made it my business to look after cows ever since
I was fifteen year old, you can't expect me to give in to you and say
_you_ do."

Her merry laugh rang out. Champney longed to echo it, but thought best
to lie low for a while and enjoy the fun so unexpectedly provided.

"Tavy, dear, that only goes to prove you are a mere man; a dear one to
be sure--but then! Don't you flatter yourself for one moment that you,
or any other man, really know any creature of the feminine gender from a
woman to a cow. You simply can't, Tavy, because you aren't feminine.
_Can_ you comprehend that? Can you say on your honor as a man that you
have ever been able to tell for certain what Mrs. Champney, or Hannah,
or I, for instance, or this cow, or the cat, or Bellona, when she hasn't
been ridden enough, or the old white hen you've been trying to force to
sit the last two weeks, is going to do next? Now, honor bright, have
you?"

Octavius was grumbling some reply inaudible to Champney.

"No, of course you haven't; and what's more you never will. Not that
it's your fault, Tavy, dear, it's only your misfortune." Exasperating
patronage was audible in her voice. Champney noted that a trace of the
rich Irish brogue was left. "Here, give me that pail."

"I tell you, Aileen, you can't do it; you've never learned to milk."

"Oh, haven't I? Look here, Tave, now no more nonsense; Romanzo taught me
how two years ago--but we both took care you shouldn't know anything
about it. Give me that pail." This demand was peremptory.

Evidently Octavius