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. In the milking barn she encountered old Ed Lister. He seemed to have grown much older, and there was a dim bluish look to his eyes. Eris shook hands with him. “How-de-do,” he said, peering at her. And answered, “Yes, marm,” and “No, marm,” as though in his mind there was some slight confusion concerning her identity. She passed along the stanchions, petting and caressing the beautiful creatures, dropping handfuls of bran, tossing in a little clover-hay. Everywhere satin-smooth coats were being wiped off, udders bathed in tepid water. The cattle were busy with bran and hay or drinking from the patent buckets. Eris went to the calf-pen, where fawn-like heifer-calves, pretending shyness and alarm, soon came crowding to lick her hands. She looked at the bull-calves; at the two young bulls selected to aspire to future leadership. She went to the bull-pen, where the herd-bull, White Cloud, gazed curiously upon her, sniffed her hand, stretched his massive neck to be rubbed and fondled, rolling contented and sentimental eyes. Her half-brothers, Gene and Willis, came in wearing spotless white. Greetings were friendly and awkward; and presently they went on into the western wing to attend to the cows on test there. Her father and Cyrus were already milking. Buddy was in the loft; Ed Lister sat with gnarled fingers clasped and dim gaze fixed on the cattle, quiet, solemn, aged. Eris walked slowly along, reading the names of the cows affixed to each stall--Mazie of Whitewater Farms, Star-Dust, White Gentian, Guelder-Rose of Whitewater, Snowberry Lass, Moon-Queen, Apple-bloom’s Daughter---- She took milking stool and pail and seated herself by Guelder-Rose, who became a trifle restive. “So, lass!--soo--lass,” she murmured, stroking the white and golden skin. And in a few moments the pail vibrated with alternate streams of milk. “Well, Dad,” she said, “have I forgotten?” Elmer grunted. Then, abruptly: “Guelder-Rose is by Whitewater Chieftain outa Snow-Rose, with a record of eleven thousan’ six hunder’n’ ten an’ two-tenth pound uv milk, an’ five hunder’n’ twenty-one, forty-seven pound uv butter-fat in class G.” “That is a fine record, Dad,” said the girl cordially.