“Eunice, fetch me a bigger pan,” he would call to Grandma, busy in kitchen or buttery; and how testy he got if she didn’t understand, or brought the wrong pan! I shuddered when he spoke that way to her, and wondered why it was; and her meek face and humble silence made me love and pity her the more. I never learned not to mind Grandpa’s angry tones. It was “his way” with her. His voice, as I remember it, was almost always harsh to her, but never to me, never to me. He was always indulgent with me, and with all of us children--except when we hung around the barn at milking-time--then he would forget himself, and one would have thought he was shouting to Grandma or to the cows instead. We learned not to put his temper to this strain very often--his hospitality did not extend that far. I don’t know how much an incident of my babyhood engendered this feeling: Grandpa had a white cow, a gentle, well-behaved “critter,” but one day when they took her calf away, maddened, she made a dash at me, playing near; caught me on her horns, and ran up the bank of the tow-path, while Mother looked on paralyzed with fear. As Grandpa and a neighbour ran up the bank, the cow ran faster, then tossed me wildly in the air. “I didn’t know whether you would fall in the water or on her horns,” Mother used to say; “I expected to see you drowned in the canal or horribly wounded; but Mr. Mintline caught you in his arms--Grandpa sold the cow the next day.” Mother’s voice always trembled in recounting the incident. Since then I have always been afraid of cows. If the peaceable creatures come slowly toward me, try as I will I cannot walk slowly away. I breathe freely only when the fence is between them and me. By some childish twist of the imagination, so vivid was the impression made upon me by hearing of being caught on the horns of that old white cow, I believed myself to have been injured by the act, and was quite a big child before I learned that certain anatomical mark on my body--the little deep dimple in the abdomen--was not made by the horns of that angry cow. It needed the confirmation given by seeing my sister’s and other children’s bodies similarly marked to disabuse my mind of that belief. I remember when in my early ’teens I would meet that neighbour--Mintline--an unkempt man, who had long since forgotten his share in my life, I would think, “He caught you in his arms,” and would smile to myself at the incongruity as, fluttering past him on the street in my pretty muslin gown, I was acutely conscious of the contrast with his rough, untidy clothes. Turning and looking after him I would say under my breath, “_You_ don’t know, but I do, and I’m grateful to you, even if you have forgotten it all.”