Kinraid stood between Kester and the door into the dairy, through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk.

He half wished to conciliate Kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by a force which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went.
Kester read his mind.
'Let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan such dainty carryin' as milk.

A may set it down an' niver spill a drop; she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; better help her t' teem t' milk.' So Kinraid followed the light--his light--into the icy chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that Sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans.

In his haste to help her, Charley took up one of the pails.
'Eh?
that'n 's to be strained.

Yo' have a' the cow's hair in.
Mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.' So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she--but not before he--was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it.
'There!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'now yo'll know how to do it next time.' 'I wish next time was to come now,' said Kinraid; but she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him.