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Dely’s tender heart was greatly stirred by the letter, yet she was undecided what to do. Here she was alone and poor; there would be her mother,— and she loved her mother, though she could not respect her; there, too, was plenty for all; and if George should ever come home, the bakery business was just the thing for him,— he had energy and courage enough to redeem a sinking affair like that. But then what should she do with the cow? Puss could go home with her; but Biddy? —There was no place for Biddy. Pasture was scarce and dear about Hanerford; Dely’s father had given up keeping a cow long before his death for that reason; but how could Dely leave and sell her faithful friend and companion? Her heart sank at the thought; it almost turned the scale, for one pitiful moment, against common-sense and filial feeling. But baby coughed, — nothing more than a slight cold, yet Dely thought, as she had often thought before, with a quick thrill of terror, What if baby were ever sick? Seven miles between her and the nearest doctor; nobody to send, nobody to leave baby with, and she herself utterly inexperienced in the care of children. The matter was decided at once; and before the driver who mother’s letter had come, on his next journey, for the answer he had offered to carry, Dely’s letter was written, sealed, and put on the shelf, and she was busy contriving and piecing out a warm hood and cloak for baby to ride in.

But every time she went to the barn to milk Biddy or feed her , the tears sprang to her eyes, and her mind misgave her. Never before had the dainty bits of food been so plentiful for her pet, or her neck so tenderly stroked. Dely had written to her mother that she would come to her as soon as her affairs were settled, and she had spoken to Orrin Nye, who brought the letter, to find a purchaser for her cow. Grandfather Hollis, who bought Biddy, and in whose farm-yard I made her acquaintance, gave me the drover’s account of the matter, which will be better in his words than mine. It seems he brought quite a herd of milk cows down to Avondale, which is twenty miles from Hanerford, and hearing that Grandfather wanted a couple of cows, he came to “trade with him,” as he expressed it. He had two beautiful Ayrshires in the lot, — clean heads, shining skins, and good milkers,— that mightily pleased the old gentleman’s fancy; for he had long brooded over his favorite scheme of a pure-blooded herd, and the red and white clouded Ayrshires showed beautifully on his green hillside pastures, and were good stock besides. But Aaron Stow insisted so pertinaciously that he should buy this red cow, that the Squire shoved his hat back and put both his hands in his pockets, a symptom of determination with him, and began to question him. They fenced awhile, in true Yankee fashion, till at last Grandfather became exasperated.

“Look here, Aaron Stow!” said he, “what in thunder do you pester me so about the cow for? She’s a good enough beast, I see, for a native; but those Ayrshires are better cows and better blood, and you know it. What are you navigating around me for, so glib?”

“Well, now, Squire,” returned Aaron, whittling at the gate with sudden vehemence, “fact is, I’ve set my mind on your buyin’ that critter, an’ you jes’
set down on that ÔøΩere milkin’-stool an’ I’ll tel’l ye the rights on’t, though I feel kinder meechin’ myself, to be so soft about it as I be.”