She did n't know.
"Tell him straight there ain't any, an' be done with it," was Dad's
cheerful advice. Mother several times approached the door, but hesitated
and returned again.
"What are you afraid of?" Dad would ask; "he won't eat y'." Finally she
went in.
Then Dad tiptoed to the door and listened. He was listening eagerly when
a lump of earth--a piece of the cultivation paddock--fell dangerously near
his feet. It broke and scattered round him, and rattled inside against
the papered wall. Dad jumped round. A row of jackasses on a tree near by
laughed merrily. Dad looked up. They stopped. Another one laughed
clearly from the edge of the tall corn. Dad turned his head. It was
Dave. Dad joined him, and they watched the parson mount his horse and
ride away.
Dad drew a deep and grateful breath. "Thank God!" he said.
CHAPTER XXII.
Callaghan's Colt.
It was the year we put the bottom paddock under potatoes. Dad was
standing contemplating the tops, which were withering for want of rain.
He shifted his gaze to the ten acres sown with corn. A dozen stalks or so
were looking well; a few more, ten or twelve inches high, were coming in
cob; the rest had n't made an appearance.
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