“Your disconsolate brother, on what is, in all probability, the last and distracted night of his life.
“Gregory Nazianzen Rose.
“P.S.—Tell mother to take care of my pearl studs. I left them in the wash-hand-stand drawer. Don’t let the children get hold of them.
“P.P.S.—I shall take this letter with me to the farm. If I turn down one corner you may know I have been accepted; if not, you may know it is all up with your heartbroken brother,
“G.N.R.”
Gregory having finished this letter, read it over with much approval, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and sat contemplating the inkpot, somewhat relieved in mind.
The evening turned out chilly and very windy after the day’s heat. From afar off, as Gregory neared the homestead on the brown pony, he could distinguish a little figure in a little red cloak at the door of the cow-kraal. Em leaned over the poles that barred the gate, and watched the frothing milk run through the black fingers of the herdsman, while the unwilling cows stood with tethered heads by the milking poles. She had thrown the red cloak over her own head, and held it under her chin with a little hand, to keep from her ears the wind, that playfully shook it, and tossed the little fringe of yellow hair into her eyes.
“Is it not too cold for you to be standing here?” said Gregory, coming softly close to her.
“Oh, no; it is so nice. I always come to watch the milking. That red cow with the short horns is bringing up the calf of the white cow that died. She loves it so—just as if it were her own. It is so nice to see her lick its little ears. Just look!”
“The clouds are black. I think it is going to rain tonight,” said Gregory.