e.

"I guess I'll go down to the house," he said aloud, getting up by easy
stages. "I see the cow's pulled up her stake, an' 's r'airn round tryin'
to get to the calf. Mebby Idy'll need some help."

"She was calc'latin' to move 'er at noon," said Eben, shading his eyes,
and looking toward the house. "It must be 'long toward 'leven now. If
you're goin' down, you'd better stop an' have a bite o' dinner with us."

"Well, I won't kick if the women folks don't," answered Parker amiably;
"bachin' 's pretty slow. I've eat so much bacon an' beans I dunno
whether I'm a hog or a Boston schoolma'am."

Arrived at the corral, where the cow stood with uplifted head snuffing
the air, and gazing excitedly at her wild-eyed offspring, his composure
suddenly vanished. Miss Starkweather was holding the stake in one hand,
and winding the rope about her arm with the other.

"Hello!" she said, with a start, "where on earth 'd you spring from?"

"I see the cow was loose," ventured Parker, "an' I thought you mightn't
be able to ketch 'er."

"Well, it wouldn't be fer lack o' practice," responded the girl, with a
wide, good-natured smile. "She's yanked her stake out three times this
mornin', an' come cavin' around here as if she thought somebody wanted
to run away with 'er triflin' little calf. I guess she likes to have me
follerin' 'er 'round."

"She's got good taste," said Parker gallantly.

The girl laughed, and struck at him with the iron stake.

"Oh, taffy!" she said, looking at him coquettishly from under her frizz.
"Ain't you ashamed?"

"No," said Parker, waxing brave. "Gi' me the stake; mebbe I c'n fasten
'er so she'll stay."

"You're welcome to try,"--the girl slipped her arm out of the coil of
rope,--"but I don't b'lieve you can, unless you drill a hole in a
boulder, an' wedge the stake in."

Parker led away the cow, mooing with maternal solicitude, and Idy
returned to the house. When she reached the kitchen door, she turned and
called between the ringing blows of the axe,--

"Oh, Mr. Lowe, mother says won't ye come to dinner?"

"You bet!" answered Parker warmly.

Mrs. Starkweather sat on the doorstep picking a chicken, which seemed to
develop a prodigious accession of leg and neck in the process. She had
the set, impervious face of a nervous invalid, and her whole attitude,
the downward curve of her mouth, and the elevation of her brows, were
eloquent of injustice. The clammy, half-plucked fowl in her hand seemed
to