“Don’t daughter, ma will be mad if I don’t keep to work,” he said pathetically.
“Oh, pa, I’ll hoe in your place; do go and take my book away from her, she’s going to burn it, and it isn’t mine at all; it’s Willie Burt’s!” she cried in agitated incoherence. “Oh, hurry, pa! Don’t let her burn it,” her voice full of tears. He stooped for one instant and laid his hand caressingly upon her head.
“Poor little Thella,” he murmured, then walked hurriedly up to the house. Thella looked after him sorrowfully:
“Poor pa!” she said, with a quiver in her voice.
Presently he came slowly back through the broiling sunshine and took the hoe from her hand.
“Well?” said Thella interrogatively.
He shook his head: “’Twasn’t no use, she had it in the stove.”
“The mean, old thing—” began Thella.
“Tut-tut; she’s your mother,” said pa gently.
“She isn’t my mother; my little mother is dead!” She began very hotly, but ended with choking sobs.