“I didn’t want to take her, after I found out, but Mrs. McSwiggins said that they needed the money awfully, and that I was doing them a favor—­only it was hard, and then she cried and the children all cried, too.”

“Why haven’t they told some one before this?” asked the Judge, wiping his eyes.

“I guess the mother is too proud.  They are from the South and they haven’t been in this neighborhood long, and she don’t know any one.”

“What’s the cow’s name?” asked Anne, whose eyes were like dewy forget-me-nots.

“Sweetheart.  The biggest girl named her, and when I went out of the gate she just sat down on the step and looked after us, and her eyes hurt me, they were so sad.”

The little cow moved restlessly.  “I guess I’ll have to go,” sighed Launcelot, standing like a Peri outside the gates of Paradise, and contrasting the coolness and quiet of the old garden with the heat and dust of the long white road.  “I guess I’ll have to take Sweetheart on.”

But just then down the path came Perkins, dignified in white linen, and in his hand he bore a tray on which a glass pitcher, misty with coolness and showing ravishing glimpses of lemon peel and ice, promised delicious refreshment.

“You come and have some lemonade, Mr. Launcelot,” said Perkins, as he set the tray on the table, “I’ll hold the cow.”

And, as they all insisted, Launcelot came in, and Perkins went without the gate.

But, alas, Sweetheart was a cow of many moods, and as the gay little party in the garden sipped the cooling drink in the shade of the trees, the little cow, growing restive out there in the sun with the flies worrying her, suddenly ducked her head and ran.

And after her, still holding the rope, went the immaculate Perkins, to be dragged hither and thither by her erratic movements, while he shouted desperately, “Whoa.”

And after Perkins went the excited Terry-dog, and after Terry went Launcelot, and after Launcelot went Judy, and then Anne, and then far in the rear, the Judge, while Captain Jameson, too weak to run, stood at the gate and watched.

It was a brave race.  Perkins had grit and he would not let go of the rope, and Sweetheart wanted to go home and she would not stop running, and so the procession went up the dusty road and down a dusty hill, and then up another dusty hill, and down a cool green bank, where seeing ahead of her a murmuring limpid stream, Sweetheart dashed into it, stood still, and placidly drank in long sighing gulps.

Perkins went in after her, and was rescued by Launcelot, while Judy and Anne stood on the bank and laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks.

Perkins laughed, too, as he emerged wet and dripping, but beaming.

“I didn’t let her go,” he chuckled, a little proud of his agility in his old age, and Launcelot said admiringly, “I didn’t think you had it in you, Perkins,” and at that Perkins chuckled more than ever.