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double-strand sections in the fence, but on more than one occasion was left bawling on Connelly’s side at the retreating backs of both Steele and me, after I had gone over to retrieve my flock.
    One day Francesca discovered the heifers at Connelly’s. The A-I man from Eastern had done his job and I thought she was bred. But there was something about the sight of those heifers that drew her like a magnet. Tom drove in, in his Bronco, shouting, “That heifer of yours is going to break down my fence so I put her in with my cows. Get her when you want to.” So Steele and I went to Tom’s field to retrieve Lady Francesca Cavendish. She took one look at us and ran away. Again and again. Life with cows appealed to her, I presume, and life with sheep did not.
    I was suddenly called to New York because of an illness and death of a close friend. It was two weeks before Steele and I were able to return to Tom’s field. By then Francesca had become much attached to her new friends and went tearing into the woods at the sight of us.On the fifth or sixth day, my steps now leaden as I trudged over the rise and up the hill, I found the woods and field empty.
    Nowhere was the herd to be seen. Rumor had it that the heifers were sold. Despair filled my heart and failure filled my soul. All dreams for that farmhouse cheddar cheese curing nicely in the cellar and a beautiful new little calf in the fields were gone.
    I called Connelly’s several times and wrote two letters to him in the fall, realizing full well that I’d probably not reach him. Yet there had to be a way to resolve the issue. I knew he was not a man who could live with his conscience if he profited from the sale of my cow. Connelly is a complex man but has his own sense of justice and his own sense of humor as well. But ultimately he honors his values.
    After a few months of thought and procrastination, I made one last attempt. I wrote a final letter describing how Steele and I put his heifers in when they first broke out in the spring. Then, with great care, I broached the subject of Lady Francesca Cavendish. “I know you would be appalled to realize you had profited from the sale of my cow,” I wrote.
    A few days later, just last week, Tom stopped by the house. “What made you think I sold your cow?” he said. “She is in my backyard.”
    â€œYou mean she is still alive? I cried for a week when I heard she’d been sold,” I said.
    Tom danced his Irish jig, or rather I did while he piped for a few minutes. “She’s nice,” he said.
    â€œI know,” I replied. “I trained her to lead.”
    â€œWhat do you want for her?” he said. “You come up and see her.”
    â€œNo, I couldn’t bear it,” I replied. “You decide the fair price, I trust you.”
    â€œI’ll be by in a few days with a check,” he said.
    The rain seeped into my soul today. The recommendations fromthe Cooperative Extension yesterday about my fields would be expensive and arduous to comply with. There was nothing I could think of to redeem my day or give any joy to my heart. But then I remembered Tom’s visit and suddenly I knew.
    I called George Thompson who has a Jersey herd over on Dry Brook. “Do you have a four- or five-day-old calf for sale?” I asked.
    â€œIt so happens I do,” he said.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œForty dollars.”
    â€œI’ll take her,” I said.
    It was the only thing I could do. And suddenly the rain sounds like music and the cool air inspires me to bake some lemon cookies and brings the thought of having tea when I’ve eaten all meals walking, between chores, for weeks. And all I can do is smile, and the house feels full of joy.

MY GRANDFATHER, MY GRANDSON, AND I
    M Y BROTHER Arnold, my cousin Henry, and I used to play together summers on Grandpa’s farm. We were the youngest of eight children, an oddly small number from my