"Come outside and wash in the
trough if you do not want to leave Brindle. You can sit near by and watch
her, if you think you must, though it will not do a particle of good, for
she is bound to die anyway. What were you doing in there on your
knees--praying?"
The woman's voice softened perceptibly as the question passed her lips, and
she looked half-pityingly into the pale, haggard young face, thinking of
little Ted's, and wondering how it would have looked at thirteen if he had
done this thing.
"Yes," muttered Harry, plunging his hands into the water of the trough, and
splashing it over the red flame of a sudden burning blush that kindled in
his ash-pale cheeks. "Isn't it all right to pray for a cow to get well? It
'most kills me to see her suffer so."
Mrs. Layton smiled unwillingly; for the value of her pet cow's products
touched her more deeply than a boy's penitent tears, particularly when that
boy was not her own. "There is no use of your staying in there and watching
her suffer, you cannot do her any good," she insisted. "Stay out here in
the fresh air. Do you hear?"
"Yes, ma'am," choked Harry, drying his face on the sleeve of his gingham
shirt.
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