She paused for a moment to wipe the splashes of cream from her cheeks, and rest her arms. Then her great-grandmother called: "Lucy!" It was no use pretending that she had not heard; the tones of the old voice demanded a reply. "Yes," she answered, reluctantly. "Has the butter come yet, Lucy?" "Nay." "Nay? I doubt the butter will never come to idle hands." The girl began again, and the thud, thud of the churn was like the angry beating of her heart. Lucy's unwonted despondency rose from the strange temper of Joel. Usually he was as affectionate as she could desire, but sometimes, without any reason that she knew, he would be taciturn and neglectful. Yet he loved her--she did not doubt it. There was an inconsistency in him, and it puzzled her. For to Lucy's understanding, character should be simple, and not a thing of complex feelings and contradictory impulses. Though Joel purposed the highest achievements, he rarely attained; though he said that he adored her, he could not rouse his energy to fulfil his responsibilities. She was unhappy, trying to piece together these parts of him, and present a clear picture to her mind. At last she heard the plop-plop of butter in the churn, and her eyes brightened. When the brain is distracted with questions it is unable to solve, that concern the inner life, it finds relief in turning to outward shows, where something is being accomplished--be it only the coming of butter. The hind had cleaned out the byre, and shaken down fresh straw. It glistened in the gloom like thick golden threads, soon to be trodden under the hoofs of the cows. Lucy could hear her sister's voice as she drove them from their pasture across the bridge to the milking. They lumbered in single file up the path--red cows, white cows, piebald cows, with straight horns and full swinging udders, their brown eyes looking from under their lashes with an expression of innocent content. Lucy was in a mood to draw analogies from everything about her, and she thought of the yellow straw and Barbara's hair, and how soon life, with its heavy foot, would beat out its gold. "If you could have a wish just now, that would come true," she said, "what would you wish for most in the world?" Barbara leaned her cheek against the warm side of Cushy, her favourite cow, and pondered this question, while the only sound was the swish of milk into the pail. "Eyes," she remarked at length. "Eyes? You're not going blind, Barbara?" "Nay, nay, I've got the best eyes in the dale. I can count twelve stars in the Pleiades, and no one else can see more than six. It's not them kind of eyes I want--it's spirit-eyes." "Oh, Barbara, do you want to see spooks?" The girl laughed, and then was silent. At last she said: "I feel that if we could push a curtain aside, we'd find ourselves in a wonderful world. It's here, about us, on every hand, but we can't get in."