"If I'm not grown up yet, when shall I be?" asked the girl. "I'll soon be an old maid like Delia Pringle."
Mr. Bronson and Hiram laughed at this statement. But the latter felt that Lettie was more in earnest than her father considered. St. Beris seemed to develop its pupils rather early. Hiram was glad that Sister did not attend that school—not, however, that he really compared Sister to Lettie Bronson in any way!
However, Lettie Bronson went over to call on Miss Pringle while her father and Hiram started down the road toward Battick's place. From every drain the water was still pouring into the roadside ditch, but of course not in the volume it had the night before.
Mr. Bronson cheered up immediately when he saw this.
"And not a puddle in sight on the whole twenty acres! Well, Hiram, it looks as though you had done a good job here—and saved me money. We won't worry over the dead yearlings. That you certainly could not help. The tree you tell about must have fallen in the midst of the herd. It is fortunate no more of them were killed.
"One of my neighbors near Plympton had his barn torn to pieces last night and all his cattle killed. Who else suffered around here?"
"I am not sure that anybody suffered much damage by the tornado, but Yancey Battick lost his stack of wheat—and it was a wonder of a stack!"
"Did he have much?"
"It was the handsomest wheat I ever saw," Hiram told him earnestly. "I want to show you a sample of it that he gave me, Mr. Bronson. I think there would have been thirty-five or forty bushels of it when it was thrashed."
"Humph! At the price wheat is going to be—"