“Hi! hi!—­Where’s the milk?”

“No milk for the poor children to-day,” said I, showing him the inside of the pail, with a sorrowful shake of the head, for it was no small loss to them and me.

“How the devil’s that?  So you were afraid to milk the cows.  Come away, and I will keep off the buggaboos.”

“I did milk them—­no thanks to your kindness, Mr. Malcolm—­but—­”

“But what?”

“The ox frightened me, and I fell and spilt all the milk.”

“Whew!  Now don’t go and tell your husband that it was all my fault; if you had had a little patience, I would have come when you asked me, but I don’t choose to be dictated to, and I won’t be made a slave by you or any one else.”

“Then why do you stay, sir, where you consider yourself so treated?” said I.  “We are all obliged to work to obtain bread; we give you the best share—­surely the return we ask for it is but small.”

“You make me feel my obligations to you when you ask me to do anything; if you left it to my better feelings we should get on better.”

“Perhaps you are right.  I will never ask you to do anything for me in future.”

“Oh, now, that’s all mock-humility.  In spite of the tears in your eyes, you are as angry with me as ever; but don’t go to make mischief between me and Moodie.  If you’ll say nothing about my refusing to go with you, I’ll milk the cows for you myself to-night.”

“And can you milk?” said I, with some curiosity.

“Milk!  Yes; and if I were not so confoundedly low-spirited and—­lazy, I could do a thousand other things too.  But now, don’t say a word about it to Moodie.”

I made no promise; but my respect for him was not increased by his cowardly fear of reproof from Moodie, who treated him with a kindness and consideration which he did not deserve.

The afternoon turned out very wet, and I was sorry that I should be troubled with his company all day in the house.  I was making a shirt for Moodie from some cotton that had been sent me from home, and he placed himself by the side of the stove, just opposite, and continued to regard me for a long time with his usual sullen stare.  I really felt half afraid of him.

“Don’t you think me mad!” said he.  “I have a brother deranged; he got a stroke of the sun in India, and lost his senses in consequence; but sometimes I think it runs in the family.”

What answer could I give to this speech, but mere evasive common-place!

“You won’t say what you really think,” he continued; “I know you hate me, and that makes me dislike you.  Now what would you say if I told you I had committed a murder, and that it was the recollection of that circumstance that made me at times so restless and unhappy?”

I looked up in his face, not knowing what to believe.

“’Tis fact,” said he, nodding his head; and I hoped that he would not go mad, like his brother, and kill me.