arm, followed by Amos with the milking-stool in his hand and his tongue
in his cheek, go toward the Guernsey's stall.

We all looked expectantly at each other, then rose, as if by common
consent, and followed.

Lady Mary tucked her arm under Mrs. Jimmie's, and gurgled deliciously.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Jimmie! Is your husband always as amusing as he has
been here at Peach Orchard? If he is, I am sure mamma would just
delight in him--only things aren't always happening at Combe Abbey to
show him off as they are at Mrs. Jardine's."

Mrs. Jimmie looked dubious at the first part of this remark, flushed
with pleasure at the middle of it, and looked reproachfully at me at
the last.

Why is everything always my fault, I wonder?

"Well, I don't know," she said, slowly, "but it does seem as if Jimmie
always gets into more troub--I mean, has more adventures when he and
Faith are together than when he and I are alone. Oh, oh! What can be
the matter with that cow! Oh, I wonder if she has killed my husband!"

We all looked just in time to see the Guernsey gallop madly across the
garden, plough her way through the sweet corn, and disappear gaily over
the fence, heading for the trolley-tracks, with Amos a close second as
she took the hurdle.

Bee's English coachman, who took great pride in the kitchen-garden,
hastily followed to see what damage she had done, but at Mrs. Jimmie's
agonized entreaty to know what had become of Jimmie, I called him, and
he came, respectfully touching his forelock in a way which Jimmie
always said "was worth the price of admission."

"I think she has about done for the Country Gentleman, ma'am. She has
trampled it so it will never be any good."

Mrs. Jimmie turned white, and leaned gaspingly on Lady Mary.

"Trampled him!" she cried. "Oh, come! Come quickly, and see if she
has killed him!"

"My dear!" I cried, almost hysterical over her mistake. "The Country
Gentleman is a kind of sweet corn--not Jimmie! See, there he is now.
Look, dearest!"

Sure enough, there came Jimmie, a trifle sheepish, but defiant. His
derby hat was without a brim, the milk-pail was jammed together like a
folding lunch-box, and had a little foam on the outside, as the sole
product of his milking prowess.

We asked no questions, but our eager faces demanded an explanation.

He gave it,--terse as was his wont.

"Well, I'll bet that damned cow never switches her tail in anybody's
face again!"

We needed no fur