The Settlers at Home

by Harriet Martineau

“It does not seem to be hurt,” observed Mildred. “And how often you have wished for a watch!”

“I think I shall never wish for anything again,” said Oliver. Mildred saw his face as he turned away, and began to consider where she could put the watch, so that it might be safe, and that Roger might not see it, nor Oliver be reminded of it.

Ailwin and Roger were meantime disputing about which should have the raft first,—Roger wanting to secure the chest, and Ailwin insisting that it was high time the cow was milked. Oliver said he was master here in his father’s absence, and he would have no quarrels. All three should go on the raft. Roger should be landed at the staircase, where he could be collecting what he wanted to bring over, while Oliver proceeded to set Ailwin ashore beside the cow. By working to the number of three, in harmony, far more would be gained than by using up strength in fighting and disputing. He did not care how many times he crossed the water this day, if those whom he rowed would but keep the peace. He would willingly be their servant in rowing, though he chose to be their master in deciding.

Ailwin stared at Oliver. It had struck her, and Mildred too, that Oliver seemed to have grown many years older since the flood came. He was no taller, and no stronger;—indeed he seemed to-day to be growing weaker with fatigue; but he was not the timid boy he had always appeared before. He spoke like a man; and there was the spirit of a man in his eyes. It was not a singular instance. There have been other cases in which a timid boy has been made a man of, on a sudden, by having to protect, from danger or in sorrow, some weaker than himself. Roger felt something of the truth; and this had as much to do with making him quiet and tractable to-day as his interest about George, or his liking to live in a tent with companions, rather than in the open air and alone.

Ailwin was but a short time gone. She came up the bank to Mildred, swinging her empty milk-pail, and sobbing, as if from the bottom of her heart. Mildred did not think she had ever seen Ailwin cry so before; and she could imagine nothing now but that Oliver was lost. She turned so giddy in a moment that she could not see Ailwin, and so sick that she could not speak to her.

“So you have heard, Mildred,—you have heard, I see by your being so white. Oliver says she has been dead ever so many hours. I say, if we had gone the first thing, instead of staring and poking about yon tumble-down house, we might have saved her. I shall never milk her again,—not a drop!—nor any other either, so far as I see; for there is no saying that we shall ever get away. Here I have not a drop of milk to give you, my dear, though you are as white as the wall.”

“Never mind,” gasped Mildred, “if it is only the cow. I thought it had been Oliver.”

“Oliver! Bless your heart! There he is as busy about the house and things, as if nothing had happened; and just as provoking as you for caring nothing about the poor cow. There she lies, poor soul! Dead and cold, half in the water, and half out. She was worth you two put together, for some things,—I can tell you that.”

“Indeed I am very sorry,” said Mildred; and as she saw George pulling about the empty can, she melted into tears, which would come faster and faster till Oliver again stood by her side. She tried to tell him what she had been afraid of, and how she thought she should not have cried but for that;—or, at least, not so much; but she really could not explain what she felt, her sobs came so thick.

“I do not know exactly what you mean, dear,” said Oliver; “but I understand that you must be crying about the cow. I am very sorry,—very. I had rather have lost anything we have left than the cow, now George is so ill.”—Here he bit his lip, and looked away from George, lest he should cry like his sister. He went on, however, talking rather quickly at first, but becoming more composed as he proceeded. He said, “I have been thinking that it will never do for us who may be near losing everything we have, and our lives, after all, to grieve over each separate loss as it happens. When you said your prayers the first night of the flood...”