“The bull, and the horses, and the cows, and the pigs—all the creatures about the farm. They were my friends. I shall see them all again somewhere!”
He gave a great sigh.
“What do you mean by that?” asked the baker.
“I hardly know what I mean,” answered Clare. “When I’m loving anybody, I always feel I shall see that person again some time, I don’t know when—somewhere, I don’t know where.”
“That don’t apply to the lower animals; it’s nothing but a foolish imagination,” said the baker.
“But if I love them!” suggested Clare.
“Love a bull, or a horse, or a pig! You can’t!” asserted the baker.
“But I do,” rejoined Clare. “I love my father and mother much more than when they were alive!”
“What has that to do with it?” returned the baker.
“That I know I love my father and mother, and I know I love that fierce bull that would always do what I told him, and that dear old horse that was almost past work, and was always ready to do his best.—I’m afraid they’ve killed him by now!” he added, with another sigh.