XVII
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
JEAN passed out silently into the night, and pausing a moment, looked up to the silent stars, and whispered: "'The heavens declare the glory of Grod; and the firmament sheweth His handywork/ "
How long she stood meditating she never realized. The tethered cow lowed again,—a plaintive, beseeching wail, that seemed almost human. She was mourning for her slain calf, poor thing,—a calf left by the roadside at its birth. It had been mercifully killed by Captain Ranger's order, that it might escape the hardships of a sure but lingering death in following its ill-fated mother.
The cow's udder was distended and feverish. Jean, as mindful of the practical affairs of life as of its mysteries, knelt upon the ground, and, with the skill of much practice in the art of milking, relieved the poor bereft mother of her pain.
"Poor Flossie!" she said, as the patient animal drew a sigh of relief. "Poor Flossie! It seemed cruel to deprive you of your baby. And they did it, too, before your very eyes! You must be thirsty, Flossie; you 're so feverish," she said, as she brought the grateful animal a pail of clear, cold water.
Jean crept shivering into bed between her sleeping sisters, where she tried in vain to lie awake, to live over again the vivid experiences of her dream.
"Was it a dream?" she asked herself as she cuddled close among the blankets. "Who knows what dreams are, anyhow? And is there anybody on the earth who can understand, define, or fathom the mystery of sleep? *In a few minutes she was fast asleep, and when she awoke it was morning.
