‘She was coughing a good bit when I drove her in—seemed to have no heart in her either—and you can see she’s breathing quicker than the others. You put your ear to her and hearken. It’s like a lot of bubbles going off inside of her.’ He put his arm over the animal’s neck and listened. Marion did as he told her. They listened together, but she could hear nothing but Abner’s own deep, placid breath. He seemed very near to her. She could see his serious eyes shining with pin-points of lantern-light. Her heart began to beat so violently that she feared he must hear it. She felt a choking sensation in her breast, as though her heart was bursting and she must cry out or weep. It was intolerable. ‘Do you catch it?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I hear,’ she said. ‘I reckon she’s worse than she seemed,’ said Abner. ‘I think she’s got the bronchitis. You’d best let the gaffer know.’ ‘He’s gone down to Craven Arms for the sales to-morrow,’ she replied. ‘He’s booked a bed at the Railway Hotel.’ ‘Like our luck!’ Abner grumbled. ‘Well, we’d better give her a drench of gruel and poultice her when we’ve finished the milk.’ When he came back from the station she was ready with a draught of oatmeal gruel. Then she set herself to making a poultice of linseed meal and brought it out to him. ‘I reckon I can’t leave her to-night,’ he told her. ‘Hadn’t we better send for Harris?’ she asked. He flared up at once. ‘Harris? . . . I don’t want that Harris poking his nose in my shippon!’ ‘Very well,’ she said mildly. She watched him adjust the poultice over Daisy’s throat. The animal was now coughing painfully, and the chill of the night air seemed to strangle her breathing. Marion found it difficult to leave him. ‘There’s no call for you to go catching your death of cold,’ Abner said. Again she submitted. ‘But I think we’d better take turns with her,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and tell Agnes.’ She left him, and though she could not persuade him to let her take his place she returned from time to time to the byre. He scarcely spoke to her, for the animal’s condition made him more and more anxious. At one o’clock in the morning she came out in her dressing-gown with her dark hair braided down her back for the night. The cow was now a terrible sight. She had sunk down upon the floor of the shed and was breathing in desperate, quick gasps, with her brown eyes piteously upturned. ‘I don’t like the look of her,’ said Abner, ‘not half.’ ‘We shall have to send for Harris. He understands them,’ she said. ‘All right,’ he returned, grudgingly. ‘I’ll send Agnes down to the village. And then I’ll bring you some tea.’ ‘Don’t you worry about that!’ ‘Agnes is making it now.’