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of the barn. Her comments couldn’t quite drown out the whiz of milk streams connecting with the tin sides of the buckets. Obviously the others were experiencing success in emptying their cows’ full udders. If Tressa couldn’t compete with skill, she could at least be noted for her long-suffering behavior. Hopefully it would be enough to retain her position in the school.
    Her shoulders pinched from leaning forward. Her hips ached at being held in the straddle-legged position for so long. Her fingers, cramping and stiff, resisted squeezing just one more time. She bit down on her lower lip and willed herself to continue. A hand descended on Tressa’s shoulder. She peered up into Sallie’s freckled face.
    “The others’ve all taken their milk to the house for churnin’ an’ such. Aunt Hattie asked me to stay with ye.”
    Tressa spun on the stool, searching the barn. With the exception of Sallie, a row of cows contentedly munching from hay boxes, and a bird peeking over the edge of a nest snug against the rafters, the barn was empty. How could she not have heard everyone leave?
    Sallie crouched beside Tressa and angled her head to peek into the bucket. She reared back in surprise. “Why, it’s not even half full!
    Is she wigglin’ too much for ye to hit the bucket?”
    Tressa wrinkled her nose. “She’s been a patient beast and very well behaved, but . . .” She sighed, flexing her tired fingers. “I can’t seem to coax the milk from her.”
    “Scoot aside. Let me be givin’ it a try.”
    Tressa’s feeling of incompetence increased as a full, sure stream of milk fired into the bucket with Sallie’s first pull. “Oh, Sallie . . .” Tressa sank down in the soft hay, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m an utter failure at milking.”
    Sallie gawked at her. “ Udder failure?” The girl laughed, startling the cow into nervous shifting. With a wide grin, she gave Tressa’s shoulder a light push. “Not at all, Tressa. It just takes time an’ patience . . . and a wee trick. Ye must roll your fingers down the teat, like so . . .” Sallie demonstrated, squeezing one finger at a time and giving a gentle pull with the final finger. “See?”
    “I see, but . . .” Tressa bit off the last words. Hadn’t she decided not to complain? “I’ll try again.” Sallie shifted off the stool, and Tressa resumed her position, working her fingers just as Sallie had shown her. A drizzly stream released—much improved over the drip, drip, drip of moments ago. Heartened, Tressa squeezed again and was rewarded by another meager stream.
    “There now, you’re gettin’ it!” Sallie beamed, giving Tressa’s shoulder a pat. “But why don’tcha let me finish for ye?”
    “Oh, no, I—”
    “Aren’t your hands achin’?”
    Tressa sat back on the stool. In all honesty, her fingers hurt so badly she feared they’d be useless the rest of the day.
    Sallie held up her hands. Calluses dotted her palms and the pads of her fingers. “My hands’re used to milkin’.” She caught Tressa’s arm and urged her from the stool. Tressa stood to the side, rubbing her aching knuckles while Sallie quickly seated herself and emptied the cow’s udder. Finished, she pulled the bucket free and grinned.
    “Now, let’s get this girl into a stall with some breakfast, an’ we can head to the house to see what we’ll be doin’ next.”
    Tressa took the bucket with both hands. Its weight settled against her knees, and she waddled as she followed Sallie between stall rails, where the girl piled clean hay in the waiting feed box. The girl’s confident actions stirred a question in Tressa’s mind. “Sallie, you possess so many skills. . . . Surely you could have found employment in the city. Why did you choose to attend Mrs. Wyatt’s school?”
    Sallie led the cow to the feed box, her face puckered with sadness. “Right ye are that I be havin’ many skills. I’ve been workin’ from the time I was a wee lass, an’ there’s not