There was no fiddle that evening. There was no heart for it with Thomas, neither was there time, for there was the milking to do, and the “sorting” of the pails and pans, and the preparing for churning in the morning, so that when all was done, the long evening had faded into the twilight and it was time for bed.
Before going upstairs, Thomas took Hughie into “the room” where his mother's bed had been placed. Thomas gave her her medicine and made her comfortable for the night.
“Is there nothing else now, mother?” he said, still lingering about her.
“No, Thomas, my man. How are the cows doing?”
“Grand; Blossom filled a pail to-night, and Spotty almost twice. She's a great milker, yon.”
“Yes, and so was her mother. I remember she used to fill two pails when the grass was good.”
“I remember her, too. Her horns curled right back, didn't they? And she always looked so fierce.”
“Yes, but she was a kindly cow. And will the churn be ready for the morning?”
“Yes, mother, we'll have buttermilk for our porridge, sure enough.”
“Well, you'll need to be up early for that, too early, Thomas, lad, for a boy like you.”