“I see her. Well—?” said Peter.
“This morning they took her calf from her—to wean it,” said Marietta.
“Did they, the cruel things? Well—?” said he.
“And ever since, she has stood there by the gate, looking down the road, waiting, calling.”
“The poor dear. Well—?” said he.
“But do you not see, Signorino? Look at her eyes. She is weeping—weeping like a Christian.”
Peter looked-and, sure enough, from the poor cow's eyes tears were falling, steadily, rapidly: big limpid tears that trickled down her cheek, her great homely hairy cheek, and dropped on the grass: tears of helpless pain, uncomprehending endurance. “Why have they done this thing to me?” they seemed dumbly to cry.
“Have you ever seen a cow weep before? Is it comical, at least?” demanded Marietta, exultant.
“Comical—?” Peter gasped. “Comical—!” he groaned....
But then he spoke to the cow.