swished her plumed tail about her legs and put her nose in her drinking pail.
Delight found an empty tin and washed it at the well in the corner, by the pulping machine. She brought a stool then, sat down by the Jersey, and milked the pail full. The cat came bounding and rubbed herself against Delight's skirt, rolling her beseeching topaz eyes at her. Delight sent a stream of milk towards her, and Lizzie, her tigerish jaws distended, received every drop into her greedy throat.
"You don't deserve it, you naughty little cat," said Delight, "for you wouldn't come and sleep with me last night."
She raised the pail to her own mouth then and drank the foamy, warm contents. She was alone in the world, as poor as a girl could well be, stealing a breakfast of milk in a byre, yet she was happy; a sense of freedom, of early morning adventure, made her pulses thrill. Through an open window a fresh breeze came but a few drops of rain came with it, and a shadow fell, making the byre dimmer than before. Perhaps it was not so early as she had thought. She had better hurry away before old Peake appeared. It might, after all, be nearer seven than she imagined.
Even as the doubt crossed her mind she heard a heavy step outside. Then the door of the stable was swung open and the horses broke into eager whinnyings.
"Morning to you, old Major," she heard Peake's thin voice saying.
She dropped the pail and flew to the ladder. She clambered up breathlessly, and then stood listening. He passed below, pitchfork in hand.
"Morning to you, Jersey," he greeted. "Morning, cows."
