"Well, we must forget what's past and go to work. I'll tether the burros out of the roadside while you clean up their shed; and when they come back to find it all sweet and white, like Pepita herself, they'll be as pleased as Punch. Wonder we never thought of having the old stable at Fairacres whitewashed."
"Didn't have me, then," answered the lad.
"Fayette, you're as vain as a peacock. You always say 'ME' as if it were spelled with the biggest kind of capital letters."
"Do I? Hmm," responded Fayette, with a vacant smile.
Then Amy went into the house where Hallam and Cleena were arguing about what rooms should be arranged for the personal use of master and mistress, because Hallam thought his father's likes and habits should take precedence of all others.
During this time of separation from him, the son had grown to think of his parent as a whimsical invalid, only. Oddly enough, with his own physical infirmity, he had come to look upon any bodily weakness of other lads or men as something almost degrading. He had always felt himself disgraced by his own lameness. It was this which had given him so bitter and distorted an outlook upon life, and involuntarily there had crept into his love for his father a feeling of contempt as well.
Something of this showed in his talk with his sister, over this selection of rooms, and shocked her. Then, with loyal indignation she proceeded to enlighten him as to her own view of the subject.
"Now, see here, Hallam Kaye. I don't believe, I can't believe, and I never will believe that from being a brilliant scholar and a wonderfully talented artist my darling father has suddenly become a—a—the sickly, selfish man you seem to imagine."
"Amy! I never said that. I never thought it. I only remember that he has always had the best of everything, and I supposed he always should."
The tears of excited protest rushed into her eyes, but she dashed them away. "Queer, I never cry, hardly ever, unless I'm mad. I am mad at you, Hal Kaye, right straight clear through. You wait and see how father is, after this trouble. All his life he has been petted by mother, who adores him; and that not too agreeable cousin Archibald said the truth about his having had so easy a path all his life. I tell you it isn't for his children to sit here in judgment upon him, nor criticise anything he does; but one thing I believe, he's had a good hard waking up. He hasn't realized the truth. How should he? Mother has always smiled and smiled and seen to everything. He was a genius. He was never to be disturbed. He never has been. Not till now. Now he has been tumbled off his cushions whack! and presently he'll get up—all right."