"He's as big as a year-old Jersey heifer already," exclaimed Windmill proudly. "Stop your sheep shearing and look at him, Hugh."
"I've no time to spare. I'll go down to the byre and see them later."
"Here comes Mrs. Machin!"
She was approaching them at a slow, solemn gait. She did not speak but, throwing a look of bitter scorn at the cow, passed on into the barn, slamming the door behind her. She did not look in Vale's direction for weeks.
The next morning Vale was about early. On the way to the stables he met Hugh McKay coming to the house carrying a newborn lamb.
"I telled ye we'd be hæn a wee lamb the morn," he said, beaming with happiness. "I thought I'd tak it to the kitchen to warm it. It's a weak one."
"You are a woolly little fellow," said Derek, stroking it. "How is Gretta, Hugh?"
"Ah, she'll no let down her milk nor taste her mash. She's homesick for the fine byre yonder. She'll do no guid."
Derek hurried to see her, full of anxiety.
Gretta van Lowe stood solemnly alone in the cow stable. The stalls must have been built for smaller cattle; her flanks projected far into the passage. An untouched pail of mash stood before her.
"Why isn't she out with the other cows?" Derek asked Gunn who was cleaning the stable.
"They all tuk after her and butted her," he replied, grinning. "There's none of them like her. They dinna like the colour o' her."
"Rubbish. Well, turn her into the yard where she'll get
