“I will not detain you long.”
“Oh, no! I suppose about an hour. You are a shocking bad milker.”
“True; I never went near a cow until I came to this country; and I have never been able to overcome my fear of them.”
“More shame for you! A farmer's wife, and afraid of a cow! Why, these little children would laugh at you.”
I did not reply, nor would I ask him again. I walked slowly to the field, and my indignation made me forget my fear. I had just finished milking, and with a brimming pail was preparing to climb the fence and return to the house, when a very wild ox we had came running with headlong speed from the wood. All my fears were alive again in a moment. I snatched up the pail, and, instead of climbing the fence and getting to the house, I ran with all the speed I could command down the steep hill towards the lake shore; my feet caught in a root of the many stumps in the path, and I fell to the ground, my pail rolling many yards a-head of me. Every drop of my milk was spilt upon the grass. The ox passed on. I gathered myself up and returned home. Malcolm was very fond of new milk, and he came to meet me at the door.
“Hi! hi!—Where's the milk?”
“No milk for the poor children to-day,” said I, showing him the inside of the pail, with a sorrowful shake of the head, for it was no small loss to them and me.
“How the devil's that? So you were afraid to milk the cows. Come away, and I will keep off the buggaboos.”
“I did milk them—no thanks to your kindness, Mr. Malcolm—but—”
“But what?”