“She’s my child, you hadn’t ought to be so hard, Mandy,” quavered the old man.
“Well, you’ll not go, I tell you! you ain’t goin’ to spend no money running after that trollope!” answered she.
Pa sighed, but said no more; he had submitted to her rule so long that the thought of opposition did not occur to him; his shoulder seemed to bend as if beneath a heavy load; his gray head drooped lower and lower; a heavy tear or two followed the deep furrows down his cheek.
The next morning he seemed scarcely able to stir, and though her wrath enveloped him all day he seemed not to mind; he appeared like one in a dream.
When chore-time came again, she said sharply, “Ain’t you goin’ to get them cows to-night? you act as though your wits was wool-gatherin’—or like a tarnal fool!”
“Mandy, I’ve always did the best I could!” he said quaveringly, as he turned away.
“It’s poor enough, the Lord knows,” snapped she.
When pa reached the entrance to the lane he stood lost in thought for several minutes—he had forgotten all about the cows—suddenly he straightened up: “I’ve a good mind to do it! I vum, I will!” he laughed outright—a cracked, cackling laugh, that had a pitiful sound; his weak, watery eyes began to glisten; this time instead of whistling once, he whistled twice shrilly.
“Daughter, I’m coming; your old pa’s coming!” he cried gleefully.
He sat down on the hollow log where he kept his letters; he took them out, handling them over fondly; from the last one received he drew out a bill; he spelled the letter out laboriously: