"I shall be well by the Harvest Home shan't I?"
"The Harvest Home? When is that?"
"You promised to fix a day early next week, you know, father. Which day shall it be?"
"I—I don't—quite know what day to fix, my boy."
"The corn fell so fast, all day, father—it must be ready soon. Shall we say Tuesday?"
No answer: only an inarticulate murmur.
"Then that's settled. Shall I be well enough on Tuesday to dance 'Up the middle and down again,' with Dolly?"
Rises again, all unbidden, before the father's eyes, a motionless little figure, sitting in a cripple's chair. Dance! Ought he to tell him? ought he to prepare him? who was to do it, if not he? who else was to tell him of the blight that had fallen on his young life?
"You don't tell me, father. Shall I be well soon?"