dominant note in some real tragedy, and he never again smelled the
fragrance of new hay, mingled with the warm breath of sleeping cattle,
without recalling the misery and self-condemnation of that long night's
watch.

In the early dawn, Dr. Layton found the boy lying beside the quiet form in
the stall, fast asleep from exhaustion and grief, his head pillowed on the
soft, tawny coat he had loved to brush until it gleamed like silk.

"Child alive!" he gasped, bending over and taking the lad in his arms, and
carrying him out into the sweet morning air. "Harry, why did you not come
and tell me, and then go to bed?" he cried, setting the bewildered boy on
his feet, and leading him to the house. "Now, my boy, no more of this
grieving. The thing is done, and you cannot help it now. There is no more
use in crying for a dead cow than for spilled milk. Now come in and go to
bed, and stay there until tonight; and when you wake up, the new heifer,
Brindle's daughter, will be in the barn waiting for you to milk her. I am
going to buy her this morning."

* * * * *

Five years after that eventful night, Harry Aldis stood on the doctor's
front porch, a youth of eighteen, bidding good-by to the two who had been
more to him than father and mother. He was going to college in the West,
where he could work his way, and in his trunk was a high-school diploma,
and in his pocket a "gilt-edge recommendation" from Dr. Layton.

"God bless you, my boy! Don't forget us," said the doctor, his voice husky
with unshed tears as he wrung the strong young hand that had been so
helpful to him in the busy years flown by.