She had seen it that way many times already, till it was grown to something like a story. She had watched it happening, standing by, as it were, a looker-on, watching what passed between the girl there and one other.
She was standing in the front room—the girl, that is—pouring the warm milk through a big strainer.
"They're giving more milk already," thinks the girl, and laughs.
Then suddenly the door opens, and a crowd of lumbermen come hurrying through the room, going out to their night's work. The girl stands with her back turned to them as they pass, answering over her shoulder the jests of the men as they go.
But the one that was last of all—he did not go on with the rest, but stayed, as if in wonder, looking at her. A tall, slender lad. His jacket was unbuttoned, his cap a trifle on one side, and a mischievous expression played about his sunburnt face.
But the girl sees nothing, thinking the men have gone. And she, the looker-on, finds it strange that the girl should not see…. What is going to happen now?
Then the young man smiles, and steals forward noiselessly—the looker-on is all excitement now, and on the point of crying out to warn her.
Two hands reach out from behind and close gently over the girl's eyes.
"Oh!" screams the girl. "Who is it? How dare you!" And with a scream she turns and sees him standing there.
"Good evening," says the young man, laughing, and raising his cap. And the looker-on notes how the girl only blushes, and makes no answer.