I looked at her with an interest which was enhanced by the story I had heard that morning—pathetic, romantic, and altogether unusual.
"You have always lived there?" I asked.
"No," she said, briefly. "I remember to have lived at another place, but that is very long ago and does not matter."
It was evident that she did not wish to continue the subject.
"I shall have to leave you," she said, all at once; "for, listen! I hear the tinkle of a bell, and I am afraid that our cow has got out."
"Do you take care of the cow?" I asked involuntarily; for the circumstance somehow seemed surprising and out of keeping with the child's appearance.
"Oh, Moira does generally!" she replied carelessly. "She, you know, is our little maid-of-all-work. Sometimes I do myself, though; for I love poor Cusha, and I like to pat her silky back and play with her long ears. She hasn't any horns. But she wouldn't hurt me if she had; for, you see, she knows me, and puts down her head for me to pet, and lows when she sees me coming. She is a very wise cow. I wish she could talk."
"I wonder what her conversation would be like?" I said, laughing.
"Oh, I know!" answered the child, confidently; though she laughed, too.