CHAPTER XI 

TWO GIRLS AND A CALF 

Having gone to the kitchen to fill the bottle with milk, which she had set to warm, Miriam accompanied her guest to the barn. As she walked by the side of Dora, with the bottle in one hand and the other holding up her voluminous silk robe, it was well for her peace of mind that no stately coachman sat upon a box and looked at her. 

In a corner of the lower floor of the barn they found the calf, lying upon a bed of hay, and covered by a large piece of mosquito netting, which Miriam had fastened above and around him. Dora laughed as she saw this. 

"It isn't every calf," she said, "that sleeps so luxuriously." 

"The flies worried the poor thing dreadfully," said Miriam, "but I take it off when I feed it." 

She proceeded to remove the netting, but she had scarcely done so, when she gave an exclamation that was almost a scream. 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" she cried; "I believe it is dead," and down she sat upon the floor close to the calf, which lay motionless, with its head and neck extended. Down also sat Dora. She did not need to consider the hay-strewn floor and her clothes; for although she wore a very tasteful and becoming costume, it was one she had selected with reference to barn explorations, field strolls, and anything rural and dusty which any one else might be doing, or might propose. No one could tell what dusty and delightful occupation might turn up during an afternoon at Cobhurst. 
Was the calf dead?
"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" she cried; "I believe it is dead," 