The words came in a despairing sob as Mrs. Biane threw her apron over her face and sank on her knees beside the bed.
"Don't cry!" Harry begged, with her own eyes full of tears. "Isita's going to get well. Don't you worry."
The burden of her own inability to help lay sore on Harry's heart as she rode home. Poverty and sickness and the shadow of famine beyond! She would save Isita, anyhow! Whatever happened, while she herself had bread, the other girl should have half of it.
To her relief the doctor's automobile passed just after she had turned in at the home gate. Knowing that her friend was in his care she could take up her housework and the chores with real interest. Not until the cows began coming in to be milked did she remember the white-face steer.
"What a stupid I am!" she said to herself with sinking heart. "How can I tell Rob and what will he think—that I'm no good, I guess. I can't leave the milking and go, and afterwards it'll be too late. I'll go the first thing in the morning."
But she rode nearly all the next day without getting a glimpse of the steers. Nor, when she stopped to inquire for Isita, could Mrs. Biane give her any information about them. No strange animals had come in with theirs at milking time.