Elmer’s frowning face was lifted to the floor overhead—a moment—then, heavily he followed his own and unmistakable offspring down to the milking barn.
In her room the sight of objects long forgotten filled her heart;—and the odour of the house, the particular odour of her own room—melange of dyed curtains, cheap wall-paper, ingrain carpet—a musty, haunting odour with a slight aroma of fresh air filtered by forests.
Two of her half-brothers appeared with her luggage.
Buddy, grown fat and huge, shyly shook hands with her and fled. Mazie kissed her again and retired, taking Si with her, whose fascinated gaze had never stirred from the only real actress he ever had beheld.
Eris seldom cried. But now she sat down on her bed’s edge and buried her face in the pillows.
Tears flowed—tears of relaxation from strain, perhaps. And perhaps the girl wept a little because she really had nothing here to weep for—no deep ties to renew, no intimate memories of tenderness.
Bathed, her bobbed hair hatless, and in gingham and apron, Eris went downstairs and out across the grass.
Below, winding into the barn-yard, tonk-a-tonk, tonk-a-tonk, came the Whitewater herd. Here and there a heifer balked and frisked; now and then a cow lowed; and the great herd-bull, White Cloud, set the barn vibrating with his thunderous welcome to the returning herd.
Red sunshine poured through the lane, bronzing the silky coats of moving cattle. Overhead, martins twittered and dipped and circled. There was the scent of milk in the still air—of clover, and of distant woods.