Bess of the Woods by Warwick Deeping

Jeffray slept till after the sun was up, and was awakened by Bess tapping at his door. She came in blushing, looking very coy and winsome, with a bowl of hot milk on a pewter dish, milk that her own brown hands had drawn from the cow that morning. It was quite an uncommon mood in Bess, this shy and half stately air of aloofness, with its smooth tones and its half-abashed tenderness in the eyes. She gave Jeffray a very quiet good-morning, asked how he had slept, blushing still as she remembered their parting on the preceding night.

To Richard, he knew not why, there was a peculiar fascination in the girl's presence, in the very nearness of her body to his. Their hands had touched as she held out the bowl of milk to him, and the silky coldness of her skin had discharged a species of subtle magnetism at the contact. He looked up into her face, saw the subdued light of the room intensify the richness of her coloring and enhance the lustrous shadows in her eyes. In truth, Bess's eyes and Mr. Richard's were always meeting that morning, so that one or the other would redden and look away. Jeffray, where he lay, could watch the girl through the open door as she glided to and fro in the kitchen. How tall and strong she was, how full of the delicious ardor of life, supple, swift, perfect in every outline. Big of body though she was, her long legs carried her with the swinging grace of an athletic male. She kept her mouth tightly shut in repose, her intense blue eyes shining out from her ruddy face.