"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.

"Poor dear--poor dear," he repeated. He patted her soft warm
neck, and scratched her between the horns and along the dewlap.

"Poor dear--poor dear."