already in its plumes a hint of yellow buds; but it would not blossom until spring, and spring was four months away. The warm freshness of the morning made it seem much nearer than that, though; and now upon its clean brightness there came another touch—Mrs. Hansen’s geese, no less: straggling across the road, and down into the rich green of the swamp below, in a long line of shining white.
After Hansen’s, the road went, straight as a shot, up a hill lavishly crowned with trees, and with a number of little grey outhouses. As Millicent neared the summit, she could hear from the outhouses the grunting of numerous pigs, and from among the concealing trees the whirr and humming of machinery. This must be the butter-factory, then; she had heard of Morrisby’s starting one—he was a man who had always some fresh plan in his head. His neighbours were now wishing that they had had the sense to forestall him with a co-operative affair of their own, but they found his factory a boon, nevertheless, and gave it solid support.
Hansen overtook Millicent just as he reached the gate. He drove his low, heavy vehicle, with its load of tall, shining tin cans, and its huge wheels made entirely of wood, alongside the building, into whose open upper door his cans were immediately hoisted for weighing and emptying. Next, he backed his cart, with its emptied cans replaced, alongside another loft, whence, presently, from a great vat connected with the separator, that had got to work at once upon his contribution, he took aboard his cargo of skim-milk, and drove away.
