Steve was so used up by his rural experiences that he could scarcely get out of bed the next day. And that was not the worst of it: his temper was bruised as well as his body, as was manifest by the way he behaved. Not that he stormed or sulked; Steve was above anything of this kind; but he did speak very decidedly, for him, as he rose from his late breakfast.

“Nannie,” he said, “you may do as you wish about the cow. I think it might be well to sell her for beef—she is in good condition. But do as you wish about that—she is yours; but I really cannot undertake to have anything more to do with her.”

For some time after Steve left the house Nannie sat staring in the direction in which he had disappeared. She was as much amazed as she had been the day he fought the Andersonvilles, but less elated.

“Well,” she said to herself at last, “the upshot of it all is, he's given Sarah Maria notice. I wonder if he will give me notice next?”

She walked slowly into the kitchen, where a stout, red-faced woman was at work.

“Bridget,” she said, “can you milk?”

“Shure I kin; an' why?”

“Because Mr. Loveland won't milk Sarah Maria any more.”

“No more wud I, an' he's stud it so long. Shure he's been loike a lamb beside her, an' she hookin' him full o' holes till his poor body cud be used for a sieve.”

“Oh, what shall I do!” cried Nannie pettishly. “You're all of you as mean as you can be! I won't sell her for beef! I just won't!”

“No more you needn't, me darlint! There, now, don't take on so. Shure it's mesilf'll manage it wid yez somehow, though it's loike the both of us will nade the praste an' extrame unction before we're t'rough wid her.”

Nothing daunted Nannie sallied forth, followed by Bridget, who grumbled all the way.

“Faith, in ould Oireland it's mesilf milked twinty cows at wan sittin', an' they standin' forninst me widout a word loike lambs till I was ready fer the nixt wan.”

“Well, now, that's great!” interrupted Nannie. “Steve has left her right out here. I wonder why he did that?”

Mrs. Maria stared fixedly at her, once in awhile tossing her horns. There was a glare in her eye, by the light of which one might read her thoughts.

“Just here,” she was saying to herself, “Steve and I fought to a finish, and I saw the last of him as he flew through yonder window.”

“Set a pail of food forninst her now, Miss Nannie, an' she'll run to the cow-yard,” called Bridget.

This ruse proved successful. As soon as she saw the food the delighted Sarah kicked up her heels and, flourishing her head in such a manner that it seemed to comprehend everything in its wide swath, ran into the cow-yard, where Nannie skillfully lassoed her and tied her to the fence just as she plunged her nose into the pail.

Meanwhile Bridget, terrified by these lively humors, had started toward the house, and her desire for speed exceeding her physical ability, she soon measured her length upon the ground, where she lay, roaring lustily, under the impression that the enemy was upon her.

“What are you howling for, you old goose?” shouted Nannie.

“It's the cow!” screamed Bridget. “Take her off! Oh, howly Mither! I'm kilt entirely.”

“The cow is half a mile from you!” laughed Nannie. “She didn't even look toward you.”

“Shure I felt her horns go into me back, an' as the saints live in glory, I see thim come out at me brist.”

“Well, I wish I could see you come out at the cow-yard with that milk pail.”

Bridget picked up her pieces, put herself together, and discontentedly ambled toward the cow-yard, averring that in spite of all Nannie might say, she knew she had a hole an inch wide in her left lung; she could feel the wind whistle through it.

“There's nothing the matter with your lungs,” said Nannie, “as all the neighborhood knows by this time.”

With a long, solemn countenance and a tear in each eye, Bridget approached Sarah Maria, who was breakfasting in a hasty, unhygienic manner.

“It's me life I take in me hand,” murmured Bridget.

“Drop your life and take your pail instead, or are you going to milk into your apron?” said Nannie imperiously.

“Oh, me pail! Shure the head of me is turned intirely, bad cess to that cow! or I believe there's a hole through it, loike there is in me lung.”

“Your head turned!” said Nannie scornfully. “I should say it was—turned inside out and emptied entirely.”

But Bridget was wooing Mrs. Maria now.

“Aisy, now! Aisy, I say!” she muttered as she cautiously lowered herself onto the milking stool.

But by some mysterious law of opposites, as she went down the pail went up. Sarah Maria never ceased munching for a moment, but Nannie, who was fixedly regarding her and trying to calculate how much longer her breakfast would last, heard the crash, and looking around saw the pail on its way upward.

“Now may the saints forgive me if I imperil me life anny longer!” cried Bridget from a safe distance.

“And may Sarah Maria forgive you for sitting down on the wrong side of her, you old goose!” screamed Nannie in her rude way.

“Howly Mither defind us! Did I do that now? Shure the twinty cows I milked in ould Oireland preferred that side, an' they were very particular about it, ivery last wan of thim.”

“Now, don't crawl along that way,” said Nannie impatiently as Bridget crept up to her, “and take hold as if you weren't afraid.”

“Shure if I had a shillalah wid a sucker on the ind of it, it's milk her I wud, widout anny loss of me color, though she thritened me wid twinty horns an' as manny hind legs.”

“Oh, you've got several bees in your bonnet, that's what's the matter with you!” exclaimed Nannie.

“Is it bees, ye say? Air they loose too?” screamed Bridget, jerking off her sunbonnet and tearing down her hair. “Is it bees as well as cows in me hid, an' ye standin' laffin loike ter kill yersilf at the very idee of me bein' murdered in cold blud!”

By this time her hair was distraught and her face flaming with excitement and exertion, and altogether she so closely resembled some avenging spirit that even Sarah Maria began to tremble before her.

As soon as Nannie could control herself she informed her that the terrifying words she used were merely a figure of speech.

“Clothed or not clothed——” Nannie began, but Bridget burst forth:

“An' I wuldn't hev belaved that anny young leddy wid a dacent raisin' wud use figgers of spache, widout clothes at that. It's Bridget O'Flannigan'll see if——”

But here Nannie's screams of laughter interrupted her.

“I believe you've a brick in your bonnet as well as a bee,” she exclaimed.

This time Bridget understood, and clapping her sunbonnet (upside down) onto her disrumpled head, she wabbled toward the house.

This would never do, so Nannie ran and planted herself in front of her.

“Come, now, Bridget—dear Bridget, don't be mad with me,” she said coaxingly.

Bridget had come to Mrs. Lamont's when Nannie was little more than eight years of age, and through the succeeding years of childhood and girlhood had been her stanch friend and her confidante in many a time of trouble.

“What shall I do with my cow? You surely will help me out!”

The fire faded from Bridget's flaming countenance, and she paused, irresolute as to her course.

“You won't desert me, Bridget, I know!” pleaded Nannie softly.

“Sure it's not Bridget O'Flannigan will desart an orphin child; but I make it distinct, an' ye hear me now, that I'm a respictable woman, not given to takin' a dhrop too much or too little, an' I won't stan' an' be insulted, an' me twilve years over from ould Oireland come Saint Patrick's Day. An' even if I am doin' disrespictful work now, milkin' an ould cow in which the divil has taken up his risidince, I want yez still ter handle me character wid care.”

No doubt Sarah Maria was awed by this address, or else the very uncomplimentary manner in which she herself was alluded to startled her into a realization of the steep down which she was rushing and toward what pit her path inclined. Be that as it may, she contentedly munched the second pail of food which Nannie brought her, and granted the trembling Bridget peace and quiet in which to extract the cream and invoke the saints.