“At any rate,” he said, “we shall no longer be starved on bad flour and potatoes.  We shall have peas, and beans, and beets, and carrots, and cabbage in abundance; besides the plot I have reserved for cucumbers and melons.”

“Ah,” thought I; “does he, indeed, mean to stay with us until the melons are ripe?” and my heart died within me, for he not only was a great additional expense, but he gave a great deal of additional trouble, and entirely robbed us of all privacy, as our very parlour was converted into a bed-room for his accommodation; besides that, a man of his singularly dirty habits made a very disagreeable inmate.

The only redeeming point in his character, in my eyes, was his love for Dunbar.  I could not entirely hate a man who was so fondly attached to my child.  To the two little girls he was very cross, and often chased them from him with blows.

He had, too, an odious way of finding fault with everything.  I never could cook to please him; and he tried in the most malicious way to induce Moodie to join in his complaints.  All his schemes to make strife between us, however, failed, and were generally visited upon himself.  In no way did he ever seek to render me the least assistance.  Shortly after Jacob left us, Mary Pine was offered higher wages by a family at Peterborough, and for some time I was left with four little children, and without a servant.  Moodie always milked the cows, because I never could overcome my fear of cattle; and though I had occasionally milked when there was no one else in the way, it was in fear and trembling.

Moodie had to go down to Peterborough; but before he went, he begged Malcolm to bring me what water and wood I required, and to stand by the cattle while I milked the cows, and he would himself be home before night.

He started at six in the morning, and I got the pail to go and milk.  Malcolm was lying upon his bed, reading.

“Mr. Malcolm, will you be so kind as to go with me to the fields for a few minutes while I milk?”

“Yes!” (then, with a sulky frown), “but I want to finish what I am reading.”

“I will not detain you long.”

“Oh, no!  I suppose about an hour.  You are a shocking bad milker.”

“True; I never went near a cow until I came to this country; and I have never been able to overcome my fear of them.”

“More shame for you!  A farmer’s wife, and afraid of a cow!  Why, these little children would laugh at you.”

I did not reply, nor would I ask him again.  I walked slowly to the field, and my indignation made me forget my fear.  I had just finished milking, and with a brimming pail was preparing to climb the fence and return to the house, when a very wild ox we had came running with headlong speed from the wood.  All my fears were alive again in a moment.  I snatched up the pail, and, instead of climbing the fence and getting to the house, I ran with all the speed I could command down the steep hill towards the lake shore; my feet caught in a root of the many stumps in the path, and I fell to the ground, my pail rolling many yards a-head of me.  Every drop of my milk was spilt upon the grass.  The ox passed on.  I gathered myself up and returned home.  Malcolm was very fond of new milk, and he came to meet me at the door.