into
the dairy, where she often went at fall of night, to see things safe,
and sang to keep the ghosts away. She would not be singing now of
course, because he was so cross with her; but if she were there, it
would be better than the merriest song for him. But no, the place was
dark and cold; tub and pan, and wooden skimmer, and the pails hung up
to drain, all were left to themselves, and the depth of want of life was
over them. "She hathn't been there for an hour," thought he; "a reek o'
milk, and not my lassie."

Very few human beings have such fragrance of good-will as milk. The
farmer knew that he had gone too far in speaking coarsely of the cow,
whose children first forego their food for the benefit of ours, and then
become veal to please us. "My little maid is gone," said the lord of
many cows, and who had robbed some thousand of their dear calves. "I
trow I must make up my mind to see my little maid no more."

Without compunction for any mortal cow (though one was bellowing sadly
in the distance, that had lost her calf that day), and without even
dreaming of a grievance there, Master Anerley sat down to think upon a
little bench hard by. His thoughts were not very deep or subtle; yet to
him they were difficult, because they were so new and sad. He had always
hoped to go through life in the happiest way there is of it, with simply
doing common work, and heeding daily business, and letting other people
think the higher class of thought for him. To live as Nature, cultivated
quite enough for her own content, enjoys the round of months and years,
the changes of the earth and sky, and gentle slope of time subsiding to
softer shadows and milder tones. And, most of all, to see his children,
dutiful, good, and loving, able and ready to take his place--when he
should be carried from farm to church--to work the land he loved so
well, and to walk in his ways, and praise him.

But now he thought, like Job in his sorrow, "All these things are
against me." The air was laden with the scents of autumn, rich and ripe
and soothing--the sweet fulfillment of the year. The mellow odor of
stacked wheat, the stronger perfume of clover, the brisk smell of apples
newly gathered, the distant hint of onions roped, and the luscious waft
of honey, spread and hung upon the evening breeze. "What is the good of
all this," he muttered, "when my little lassie is gone away, as if she
had no father?"

"Father, I am not gone away. Oh, father, I