"I went over again to look at the steer to-day," he said, after a moment. "There's a Jersey cow, too, I think of buying."
She nodded, pausing in her work, yet keeping her gaze fixed on the point of her needle. If he had looked at her darning, he would have seen that it was woven of exquisite and elaborate stitches—such stitches as went into ecclesiastical embroideries in the Middle Ages.
"They're the best kind for butter," she observed, and carefully ran her needle crosswise in and out of the threads.
Conversation was always desultory between them, and when it flagged, as it did now, they could sit for hours in the composed and unembarrassed silence of persons who meet upon the firm basis of mutual assistance in practical matters. Their relation was founded upon the simple law of racial continuance, which is as indifferent to the individual as it is to the abstract, apotheosis of passion.
"I'm going to Applegate to-morrow to order a new mill-stone," he said at last, when he rose. "Is there anything you would like me to get for you?"
She reflected a moment. "I need a quarter of a yard of braid to finish the green dress I am making. Could you match it?"
"I'll try if you'll give me a sample."
Laying her work aside for the first time, she hunted amid a number of coloured spools in her basket, and brought to light a bit of silver braid, which she handed to him.
"Was Mr. Mullen at your house to-day, Abel?" she asked suddenly, turning her face from the lamp.
"Yes, he comes to see Blossom now, but she doesn't appear to care for him. I thought she did once, didn't you?"