He remembered that when his grandfather had died, mother had been very careful about putting everything to rights.  He knew this was something which had to be done.  But, on the other hand, he felt that he didn’t care go to the dead, in the ghastly night.  He didn’t say no; neither did he take a step toward the cowshed door.  For a couple of seconds the old cow was silent—­just as if she had expected an answer.  But when the boy said nothing, she did not repeat her request.  Instead, she began to talk with him of her mistress.

There was much to tell, first and foremost, about all the children which she had brought up.  They had been in the cowshed every day, and in the summer they had taken the cattle to pasture on the swamp and in the groves, so the old cow knew all about them.  They had been splendid, all of them, and happy and industrious.  A cow knew well enough what her caretakers were good for.

There was also much to be said about the farm.  It had not always been as poor as it was now.  It was very large—­although the greater part of it consisted of swamps and stony groves.  There was not much room for fields, but there was plenty of good fodder everywhere.  At one time there had been a cow for every stall in the cowshed; and the oxshed, which was now empty, had at one time been filled with oxen.  And then there was life and gayety, both in cabin and cowhouse.  When the mistress opened the cowshed door she would hum and sing, and all the cows lowed with gladness when they heard her coming.

But the good man had died when the children were so small that they could not be of any assistance, and the mistress had to take charge of the farm, and all the work and responsibility.  She had been as strong as a man, and had both ploughed and reaped.  In the evenings, when she came into the cowshed to milk, sometimes she was so tired that she wept.  Then she dashed away her tears, and was cheerful again.  “It doesn’t matter.  Good times are coming again for me too, if only my children grow up.  Yes, if they only grow up.”

But as soon as the children were grown, a strange longing came over them.  They didn’t want to stay at home, but went away to a strange country.  Their mother never got any help from them.  A couple of her children were married before they went away, and they had left their children behind, in the old home.  And now these children followed the mistress in the cowshed, just as her own had done.  They tended the cows, and were fine, good folk.  And, in the evenings, when the mistress was so tired out that she could fall asleep in the middle of the milking, she would rouse herself again to renewed courage by thinking of them.  “Good times are coming for me, too,” said she—­and shook off sleep—­“when once they are grown.”

But when these children grew up, they went away to their parents in the strange land.  No one came back—­no one stayed at home—­the old mistress was left alone on the farm.