She found the barn door, groping through the dark, and managed to open it; and then she watched the whole tribe of Mischief Brownies escaping frantically, and flying over the snow with Wiggles after them. “Come back, Wiggles,” she called; and the obedient little dog returned to her promptly. He felt quite disappointed at having to give up the chase so soon. “Now we’ll have to hunt for the Wooden Cow,” said Bab. “I hope they haven’t done it any harm already.” “They took off one horn,” said a thick wheezy voice near by; and Bab jumped. “Are _you_ the Wooden Cow?” she asked. “Yes; kindly put out your hand.” Bab obeyed, and touched a curved piece of wood. “That’s my horn,” said the same voice, “the one that they didn’t take off.” “Where is the other one?” asked Bab. “They didn’t take it with them, surely?” “No; I think I see your dog eating it now.” Wiggles was sitting in the doorway, cheerfully gnawing the missing horn. Bab rescued it, much to Wiggles’s annoyance, and then exclaimed to its rightful owner, “You poor thing! Did the Brownies hurt you?” “Oh, no!” said the Cow, calmly. “You know I’m wooden. Nothing hurts me. It wouldn’t have hurt me if they had cut me in pieces as they intended to, and as they would have done if you hadn’t dropped in; but it would have annoyed me. Because then I wouldn’t have existed any more. And that _would_ have been disagreeable!” “I should think so, indeed!” agreed Bab. “Now let me see how I can get this horn on again! I wish there was a light. Never mind! I’ll hunt about in the dark.” As a matter of fact, it did not seem nearly so dark as it had been. Bab saw that this was because the moon was rising. By its light drifting in through the big open door, she could see the large, motionless figure of the Wooden Cow, with its one horn. “I smell paint somewhere,” said Bab, sniffing, and began to hunt for it. Sure enough, not far away, she found a can of black paint. “Santa Claus used that to touch me up with,” explained the Cow, with a certain mournful pride. “I was a very handsome article when new!” “Well,” said Bab, cheerfully, “now, _I_’m going to touch you up with it!” For she felt very sorry for the poor Wooden Cow, and already had made up her mind to do all that she could to help it. She scooped up some saw-dust from the floor, and mixed it with the black paint until it made a thick, sticky paste. Then she plastered it on the base of the wooden horn, and then over the place on the Cow’s head from which it had been broken off. Then she stuck the horn on, and tied it up securely with a ribbon from her dress. As she did this, a tiny bit of wood—loosened, perhaps, by whatever weapon or implement the Brownies had used to cut off the horn—came off in her hand. Hardly thinking what she was doing, she dropped it into her pocket.