At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty--to eat--in
the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted,"
THEY' RE DEAD--ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!"
Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing his
eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. He had
dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved anyone.
Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed--not altogether; he raised
himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored serenely
till bed-time.
Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to
him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his
hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to eat
in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and when--merciful
God!--every year sees things worse than they were before."
"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and brooding
till it seems far worse than it really is."
"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of
wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost nearly
every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? No--no.
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