"
Robina sat down and placed her bucket underneath the cow.
"I suppose," said Robina, "it doesn't matter which--which one I begin
with?"
It was perfectly plain she hadn't the least notion how to milk a cow.
I told her so, adding comments. Now and then a little fatherly talk
does good. As a rule I have to work myself up for these occasions.
This morning I was feeling fairly fit: things had conspired to this
end. I put before Robina the aims and privileges of the household
fairy as they appeared, not to her, but to me. I also confided to
Veronica the result of many weeks' reflections concerning her and her
behaviour. I also told them both what I thought about Dick. I do
this sort of thing once every six months: it has an excellent effect
for about three days.
Robina wiped away her tears, and seized the first one that came to
her hand. The cow, without saying a word, kicked over the empty
bucket, and walked away, disgust expressed in every hair of her body.
Robina, crying quietly, followed her. By patting her on her neck,
and letting her wipe her nose upon my coat--which seemed to comfort
her--I persuaded her to keep still while Robina worked for ten
minutes at high pressure. The result was about a glassful and a
half, the cow's capacity, to all appearance, being by this time some
five or six gallons.
Robina broke down, and acknowledged she had been a wicked girl. If
the cow died, so she said, she should never forgive herself.
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