THE LIFE AND DEATH OF LUCY 135 
family in a big, hollow fallen hemlock up a steep 
ravine in the back hill country, not far from a 
tumbledown farm or two. 
No one suspected Lucy’s presence there, least 
of all old man Parmalee, who left most of the 
farming to his son, but still went out for the cows 
every night, to the pasture which led up the slope 
and met the ravine woods where Lucy had placed 
her den. It was a chilly May evening, later than 
his usual time, when old man Parmalee, waking 
from a doze, realized that he hadn’t been for the 
cows, doubtless because his son and daughter-in- 
law hadn’t got back from the village to remind 
him of his duties. He got up hastily, looked for 
a raincoat, couldn’t find one, and seized a rag rug 
from the floor, wrapping it around his aged 
shoulders and hurrying forth. 
To his surprise, the cows were not at the bars. 
No telling what that old Jersey will do, he 
thought, when you wait too long—probably led 
the rest up the hill. Well, he’d get a scolding 
sure if he didn’t go fetch ’em down. So he 
plodded up the slope, the rain dripping from the 
rug on his shoulders; and, finding hoof prints by 
