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against the wall.
    â€œUnfortunately, it appears that you will take after your father when it comes to height. A pity. Big girls are not in great demand. Men want their wives to be petite,” she said, looking Berthe up and down as if she were a weed that needed to be pulled. “No one wants a giantess hanging on his arm. Let’s just hope you stop growing at some point before you tower over your husband.”
    â€œWhat husband?” Berthe asked, her heart quickening. Was her grand-mère already planning on marrying her off?
    â€œNever you mind,” her grand-mère said, pursing her lips.
    The next morning, she announced, “It’s time for you to take on a few of the small farm chores. Renard, a boy from a neighboring farm, does most of the heavy work. He chops the wood, cuts the hay in the summer. He doesn’t have time to do the milking and feed the chickens and pigs. We have to do that.”
    As she followed her grand-mère into the barn, Berthe realized “we” meant her.
    â€œThis is my angel, Céleste,” her grand-mère said, indicating a small sturdy cow with a white head and brown patches around her eyes like spectacles. “She won’t bite. She may kick, but she’ll never bite.”
    â€œI’m much relieved,” murmured Berthe, taking several steps back.
    â€œYou must milk her every day, twice a day, until she dries up.” Grand-mère emptied a small pail of grain into Céleste’s bucket. Then the old woman set a small three-legged stool at a right angle to Céleste and sat down, resting her head against the cow’s flank.
    â€œTake the teat like this,” Grand-mère said, grasping one of Céleste’s pale teats in the palm of her hand. “You squeeze it like this,” she added, curling her fingers around the teat, the milk coming out in a strong stream. “When one goes dry you do the same with the other three. She should give milk ten out of twelve months. Otherwise, she will be shipped off to the butcher.” She gave Céleste a smack on the rear. Berthe immediately identified with the cow.
    â€œC’est tout,”
her grand-mère said, groaning as she lifted herself off the stool. “When you are done, pour the milk into this.” She held up a beautiful copper jug which had a long leather strap attached to it. Berthe had seen women on the road carrying these jugs on their shoulders. The leather strap was used to keep it steady as they walked along.
    â€œHurry up with the milking,” the old woman said as she left. “There’s still much to do today.”
    Berthe had never been so close to a cow, or asked to be on such intimate terms with one. She sat down and reached for the first teat with nervous fingers. She squeezed hard. Nothing happened. Céleste turned her head as much as the rope would allow and gave Berthe a look that seemed to say, “And what in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?”
    â€œCome on,” Berthe said, squeezing the teat even harder. She dropped one teat and quickly grabbed another as if she were ringing bells. Perspiration ran down her face. Her skin began to itch from the coarse muslin chemise. She squeezed and squeezed. Nothing happened. She did not want to report failure to her grand-mère. “Come on,” she said, gritting her teeth. Her shoulders were stiff with tension.
    â€œBerthe,” her grand-mère called from the courtyard, “aren’t you done yet? Milking doesn’t take all morning, for goodness’ sake.” Berthe bumped her head against Céleste’s side in annoyance.
    â€œPlease, Céleste, please, let go of the milk.” She was ready to cry from frustration. The cow looked around at Berthe again. That sweet face that so enchanted her when she first saw it now enraged her. “You stupid, stupid cow,” she growled.
    â€œThat’s no way to talk to her.” Berthe