“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Grandfather can take care of it by himself.”
Mrs. Butler’s voice bellowed from the rear door. “Come and get it! Come and get it before I throw it down the sink.”
Mr. Rorth grinned to himself. “Nice wholesome creature, that Mrs. Butler. But heaven knows what we would do without her.”
Mr. Rorth wiped his hands free of grease and started toward the barnyard door. Ronnie snapped off the overhead bulb and followed. “Dad,” he said, hurrying to catch up, “Dad, if you need me with the haying, I’ll help.”
Mr. Rorth thought it over. “I guess not. Thanks, son. Maybe after I get it cut, you can help load the truck. And I’ll probably need a hand getting it up into the loft, the same as last week.”
Ronnie went into the dining room to wait for the others to arrive. He stood in front of the sideboard, idly tinkling the bullet-sized glass crystals that hung in a circle of dewdrops from the rim of one of the Rorth candlesticks. A ray of light from the ceiling chandelier struck one of the crystals, and a rainbow of colors danced before the boy’s eyes.
Grandfather’s cane came thumping into the room and stopped behind the boy. “You watch your step with that candlestick!” Grandfather warned. “Doesn’t pay to monkey around with it for no good purpose. There’s little enough of the old Rorth glassware left in the world, and those two candlesticks are the prize of the lot.”
“I won’t harm it, Grandfather.”
“I know. I know. I’ve heard you say that before—with disastrous results. Those sticks, next to the village, are the pride of my life. Now you wouldn’t want to have everything taken from me, would you, lad?”
“No, Grandfather.” He turned away from the sideboard and looked up at his grandfather. “Grandpa,” he said, “Dad told me once there was a story about the candlesticks. Will you tell me about it? Dad said you were the one to tell me if I was to know.”