my hair, Sam Crittenden; and did you find that cow?" I answered, with
both defiance and anxiety in my voice.

"I did," answered Sam, cheerfully, "but how did I lose you in the
shuffle? I tied her up in the shack with a rope and then beat it in all
these five miles, partly by foot and partly by a neighbor's buggy, to
find and--er--rope you in. I am glad to see you are standing quietly at
the bars waiting for me, and as soon as I've greeted your mother and Dad
Hayes and got a little of the apple-float that I bet was the fatted calf
they killed for your prodigal return, I'll foot it the five miles back
in a relieved and contented frame of mind."

"How did you happen to let your cows get sick, Sam?" I demanded,
sternly, instead of putting my arms around his neck to tell him how
noble I had found out he was, and how glad I was that he had come all
that way to see me, and not to be mad at me because I didn't obey him
out in the lane.

"I don't know, Betty, I just don't know," answered Sam, as he lit a
corn-cob pipe and leaned closer to me in a thoughtful manner. "Cows are
such feminine things and so contrary. I don't know what I will do if I
lose any more. I--I may get discouraged."

"Have you had a doctor?" I asked, briskly and unfeelingly, though I did
take his big rough hand in my own and hold on to it with a sympathy that
was not in my voice.

"No, I've sorter doctored them by a book I have. The only good
veterinary doctor about here lives way over by Spring Hill, and it would
take him a day to drive over and back, besides costing me about ten