“Very like a bear,” said I. “Well, it’s lucky you weren’t hurt. You can thank the cow that you didn’t break your back. I hope you didn’t break hers.” She went off into yells of laughter at this mild bit of humour, and cheerfulness now being restored, I thanked Bert for giving me a lift and told him I didn’t care to go any farther. He left us and we went on picking berries, and before the pail was full Minerva had a chance to pat the fearsome beast that had so nearly frightened her to death. Now that she knew it was merely a cow, the source of the milk and cream of which she was so fond, she had no fear at all, being in that respect different from Ethel, who in the beginning had feared cows because they were cows, just as certain other women fear mice because they are mice, and as Lord Roberts fears a cat because it is a cat and not “the enemy.” The whistle at the Wharton Paper Mill told us it was twelve o’clock, and like hungry mill hands we started for home. Minerva walked ahead with both pails, and Ethel and I followed. Half way up Minerva burst into song. “How volatile!” said I. “The worst is over. We’ll have no more trouble with her,” said Ethel. So lightly do we attempt to read the future. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VIII THE ’CORDEEN COMES. THAT afternoon Bert brought an express package to Minerva. To _her_ it was a package of sunlight. In _fact_ it was the accordeon. As soon as Minerva opened the bundle she stopped cooking dinner and began to play on her beloved instrument. Such sounds I had hoped never to hear again, and I went out into the kitchen and told her that I was sorry, but that I could not stand it in the house. She looked up from the instrument, and there was a world of appeal in her eyes. I had never seen so much expression in them. Music certainly had power over her. “Oh, Mist. Vernon, it’ll be dark after the dishes is washed, an’ I don’ dah go in the woods,” said she. “I’ll play sof’.” “Yes, but you’ll delay dinner.” She actually came over and laid her brown hand on my sleeve. “Mist. Vernon,” said she, in honey tones, “I’m on’y gettin’ dinner at five to please myse’f. If I git it at six Mis. Vernon will like it better. She said so. I won’t play long.” But I was determined not to listen to such music as that in the house. So I went out doors. Ethel was sitting at the window of her bedroom. When she saw me she put her hands to her ears and made a grimace. I made signs to her to come down.