"Absolutely not," said Doris imperturbably. "Father knows better than to decide such a thing by himself. He will come straight home—and I choose the car."
So the girls reluctantly went off to school again.
At one o'clock a neighbor ran in. "Well, what do you think of that? Did you ever hear of such a thing? Would anybody but old Davison ever think of leaving a preacher anything in his will?"
"Mr. Davison was very thoughtful in many ways," said Doris with dignity.
"Yes, I suppose so. Well, it certainly is wonderful luck for you folks. It is a good cow, one of the best in the county. Everybody says so. Worth two hundred dollars, and only three years old. And think of the nice milk and cream and butter and—"
"You don't mean to say father took the cow," gasped Doris.
"Why, I don't know—I suppose so—I should think he would. Whatever would your poor father do with that devilish little red car? Of course he will take the cow."
"You scared me for a minute. I thought maybe father had a mental aberration and did it! No, he will not take the cow—not by any means. He will take the car, and take it just as fast as ever he can, and—and—and—"
Of course, the neighbor lady was sure dear Doris was quite daft, but Doris was tranquilly confident. Her faith in her father's wisdom remained unshaken—he would come to her, and she had already chosen the car. It certainly was a General's prerogative—choosing things.
At four o'clock he came, smiling, his face flushed, his eyes bright and boyish.