"Speaking of the practical," I said, "there were three things I came
to talk to you about. First and foremost, that cow."
"Ah, yes, the cow," said St. Leonard. He turned to his daughter.
"It was Maud, was it not?"
"No," she answered, "it was Susie."
"It is the one," I said, "that bellows most all night and three parts
of the day. Your boy Hopkins thinks maybe she's fretting."
"Poor soul!" said St. Leonard. "We only took her calf away from her-
-when did we take her calf away from her?" he asked of Janie.
"On Thursday morning," returned Janie; "the day we sent her over."
"They feel it so at first," said St. Leonard sympathetically.
"It sounds a brutal sentiment," I said, "but I was wondering if by
any chance you happened to have by you one that didn't feel it quite
so much. I suppose among cows there is no class that corresponds to
what we term our 'Smart Set'--cows that don't really care for their
calves, that are glad to get away from them?"
Miss Janie smiled. When she smiled, you felt you would do much to
see her smile again.
"But why not keep it up at your house, in the paddock," she
suggested, "and have the milk brought down? There is an excellent
cowshed, and it is only a mile away."
It struck me there was sense in this idea. I had not thought of
that. I asked St. Leonard what I owed him for the cow. He asked
Miss Janie, and she said sixteen pounds. I had been warned that in
doing business with farmers it would be necessary always to bargain;
but there was that about Miss Janie's tone telling me that when she
said sixteen pounds she meant sixteen pounds.
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