"Has he been killed?" I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I was
a large family of brothers--all armed.

But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern and
a dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm.

"See here, sir," she said, "it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mind
that I'd learn to milk--if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed at
all, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need of
my goin' after no man in the mornin'," said she, hanging up the barn key
on its nail.

I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomona
had grown to be.

We were all the time at work in some way, improving our little place.
"Some day we will buy it," said Euphemia. We intended to have some wheat
put in in the fall and next year we would make the place fairly crack
with luxuriance. We would divide the duties of the farm, and, among
other things, Euphemia would take charge of the chickens. She wished to
do this entirely herself, so that there might be one thing that should
be all her own, just as my work in town was all my own. As she wished
to buy the chickens and defray all the necessary expenses out of her own
private funds, I could make no objections, and, indeed, I had no desire
to do so. She bought a chicken-book, and made herself mistress of
the subject. For a week, there was a strong chicken flavor in all our
conversation.

This was while the poultry yard was building. There was a chicken-house
on the place, but no yard, and Euphemia intended to have a good big one,
because she was going into the business to make money.

"Perhaps my chickens may buy the place," she said, and I very much hoped
they would.

Everything was to be done very systematically. She would have Leghorns,
Brahmas, and common fowls. The first, because they laid so many eggs;
the second, because they were such fine, big fowls, and the third,
because they were such good mothers.

"We will eat, and sell the eggs of the first and third classes," she
said, "and set the eggs of the second class, under the hens of the third
class."

"There seems to be some injustice in that arrangement," I said, "for the
first class will always be childless; the second class will have nothing
to do with their offspring, while the third will be obliged to bring up
and care for the children of others."

But I really had no voice in this matter. As soon as the carpenter
had finished t