splashing it over the red flame of a sudden burning blush that kindled in
his ash-pale cheeks. "Isn't it all right to pray for a cow to get well? It
'most kills me to see her suffer so."

Mrs. Layton smiled unwillingly; for the value of her pet cow's products
touched her more deeply than a boy's penitent tears, particularly when that
boy was not her own. "There is no use of your staying in there and watching
her suffer, you cannot do her any good," she insisted. "Stay out here in
the fresh air. Do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," choked Harry, drying his face on the sleeve of his gingham
shirt. He sat down on a box before the door, the plate of food in his lap,
and made an attempt to eat the daintily cooked meal, but every mouthful
almost choked him.

At about midnight, the sleepless young watcher, lying on the edge of the
hay just above the empty manger over which a lantern swung, lifted himself
on his elbow at the sound of a long, low, shuddering groan, and in another
moment, Harry knew that poor Brindle had ceased to suffer the effects of
her gluttonous appetite. Creeping down into the stall, he saw at a glance
that the cow was dead, and for a moment, alone there in the stillness and
darkness of the spring night, he felt as if he were the principal actor in
some terrible crime.

"Poor old boss!" he sobbed, kneeling down, and putting his arm over the
still warm neck. "I--I have killed you--after all the rich milk and butter
you have given me, that have made me grow strong and fat--just by my
carelessness!"

In after-years the memory of that hour came back to Harry Aldis as the