"My, how my wrists ache! See, Tave, the pail is almost full; there must be twelve or fourteen quarts in all."
She began to rub her wrists vigorously. Octavius muttered: "I told you so. You might have known you couldn't milk steady like that without getting all tuckered out."
Champney stepped forward quickly. "Right you are, Tave, every time. How are you, dear old chap?" He held out his hand.
"Champ—Champney—why—" he stammered rather than spoke.
"It's I, Tave; the same old sixpence. Have I changed so much?"
"Changed? I should say so! I thought—I thought—" he was wringing Champney's hand; some strange emotion worked in his features—"I thought for a second it was Mr. Louis come to life." He turned to Aileen who had sprung from her stool. "Aileen, this is Mr. Champney Googe; you've forgotten him, I dare say, in all these years."
The rich red mantled her cheeks; the gray eyes smiled up frankly into his; she held out her hand. "Oh, no, I've not forgotten Mr. Champney Googe; how could I?"
"Indeed, I think it is the other way round; if I remember rightly you gave me the opportunity of never forgetting you." He held her hand just a trifle longer than was necessary. The girl smiled and withdrew it.
"Milky hands are not so sticky as spruce gum ones, Mr. Googe, but they are apt to be quite as unpleasant."
Champney was annoyed without in the least knowing why. He was wondering if he should address her as "Aileen" or "Miss Armagh," when Octavius spoke: