Daisy was a red Devon cow, the only one of her breed in Prosser’s herd of white-nosed Herefords. Some weeks before she had calved; but the calf had been feeble and had died, and though they had given her a calf-skin stuffed with straw to lick she had pined, and the milk had failed in quality. Now she stood miserably in her stall with her ears turned back and her sleek coat staring.
‘Why, what’s wrong with her?’ Marion asked.
‘She was coughing a good bit when I drove her in—seemed to have no heart in her either—and you can see she’s breathing quicker than the others. You put your ear to her and hearken. It’s like a lot of bubbles going off inside of her.’
He put his arm over the animal’s neck and listened. Marion did as he told her. They listened together, but she could hear nothing but Abner’s own deep, placid breath. He seemed very near to her. She could see his serious eyes shining with pin-points of lantern-light. Her heart began to beat so violently that she feared he must hear it. She felt a choking sensation in her breast, as though her heart was bursting and she must cry out or weep. It was intolerable.
‘Do you catch it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I hear,’ she said.
‘I reckon she’s worse than she seemed,’ said Abner. ‘I think she’s got the bronchitis. You’d best let the gaffer know.’
‘He’s gone down to Craven Arms for the sales to-morrow,’ she replied. ‘He’s booked a bed at the Railway Hotel.’
‘Like our luck!’ Abner grumbled. ‘Well, we’d better give her a drench of gruel and poultice her when we’ve finished the milk.’
When he came back from the station she was ready with a draught of oatmeal gruel. Then she set herself to making a poultice of linseed meal and brought it out to him.