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front door. Connie emerged in the farm’s little front garden,
shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas
by the path, very velvety and rich.
’Lovely auriculas,’ said Connie.
’Recklesses, as Luke calls them,’ laughed Mrs Flint. ‘Have
some.’
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
’Enough! Enough!’ said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
’Which way were you going?’ asked Mrs Flint.
’By the Warren.’
’Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But
they’re not up yet. But the gate’s locked, you’ll have to
climb.’
’I can climb,’ said Connie.
’Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.’
They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds
were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man
was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the
path-worn pasture.
’They’re late, milking, tonight,’ said Mrs Flint severely.
‘They know Luke won’t be back till after dark.’
They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir-wood
bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In
the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty.
’There’s the keeper’s empty bottle for his milk,’ explained
Mrs Flint. ‘We bring it as far as here for him, and then he
fetches it himself’
’When?’ said Connie.

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