They could see the crown of Mildred Caniper's fair head, the white blot of her clasped hands.
"What is it?" she asked quietly, turning up her face.
"Shall Miriam order the chickens?" Helen called down.
"Oh, yes—yes," she answered, and went away.
"Ha, ha! Quite successful! Any special kind of chicken? Black legs? Yellow legs?"
"She'll give you the best she has," Helen said.
Miriam popped her head round the door of the dining-room where Uncle Alfred was smoking, waved her hand, and spared him the necessity of speech by running from the house. The sun shone in a callous sky and the wind bit at her playfully as she went down the track, to remind her that though she wore neither hat nor coat, summer was still weeks away. Miriam faced all the seasons now with equanimity, for Uncle Alfred was in the dining-room, and she intended that her future should be bound up with his. Gaily she mounted the Brent Farm road, with a word for a melancholy calf which had lost its way, and a feeling of affection for all she saw and soon meant to leave. She liked the long front of the farmhouse with its windows latticed into diamonds, the porch sentinelled by large white stones, the path outlined with smaller ones and the green gate with its two steps into the field.
The dairy door stood open, and Miriam found both Lily Brent and John within. They stood with the whole space of the floor between them and there was a certain likeness in their attitudes. Each leaned against the stone shelf which jutted, waist high, from the wall, but neither took support from it. Her brown eyes were level with his grey ones; her hands were on her hips, while his arms were folded across his breast.
"Hullo, Napoleon!" Miriam said. "Good-morning, Lily. Is he being tiresome? He looks it."
"We're only arguing," she said. "We often do it."