Most lovers, thought the young man, would have been unable to resist the temptation of putting an arm about that inviting waist for the morning greeting—the arm of the future husband had surely a right to be there. But Isaac Sharpe stood bluff and square in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his hat on his head. ‘You’ll excuse my shaking hands,’ said Rosalie, looking up with eyes in which the angry light still lingered, and a puckered brow. ‘Everything is upset, and I can’t leave the curds for a minute. Indeed, as it is I fancy the whole of this batch will be good for nothing.’ A hitherto imperceptible dimple peeped out near her lips when she spoke—such red ripe lips! Such a bewitching dimple! Isaac, however, merely thrust his hands a little deeper into his pockets, and again inquired with increased concern: ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ ‘This morning I happened to be late,’ said Rosalie, uplifting her voice, evidently for the benefit of the culprit, Jane, who had suddenly melted into tears; a fact which was betrayed by her heaving shoulders as she stood with her back to the visitors. ‘I happened to be a little late,’ repeated Rosalie severely, ‘so I desired one of the maids’—here Jane sniffed deprecatingly—‘to start work without me. And when I came down, what do you think? I actually found the careless girl pouring the rennet in out of the bottle.’ ‘Tch, tch, tch!’ commented the farmer, clicking his tongue commiseratingly. ‘There were n’t but a few spoonfuls left,’ explained Jane, almost inarticulately. ‘How could you possibly tell how many were left?’ retorted her mistress, with increased acerbity. ‘You know how particular I always am to measure it out drop for drop almost—a spoonful too much may make all the difference—particularly at this time of year. I call it downright wicked of you to run the risk of spoiling the whole vat-ful! There are a hundred and fifty gallons of milk in this vat—it should make nearly a hundredweight of cheese. And just because you are so idle and careless it may all go to waste!’ Jane turned her pretty tear-bedabbled face over her shoulder, and inconsequently and incoherently protested that she always did her best; then, with a gasp and a moan, she darted past the group in the doorway and ran round the house.