"How de do, Rosie," he said, as he took the check. He wore brown denims, and a broad hat and looked strong and clumsy.
She had no time to speak to him, for the horses whirled away up the street. The air was heavy with the scent of clover, and the bitter-sweet, pungent smells of Lombardy poplar trees.
They rode in silence till the village lay behind them and the horses calmed down.
"Cap's a perfect fool about the cars," said John. "But I had to take him; Jennie's getting too heavy, I darsent take her."
"How is the stock?"
"O, all right. We had a big crop of lambs this spring. The bees are doing well, but the clover don't seem to attract 'em this year. The corn looks well except down near the creek—it's been wet there in rainy seasons, you remember." He gave other reports concerning stock.
Rose felt for the first time the unusualness of this talk. All her life she had discussed such things with him, but on previous vacations she had not been conscious of its startling plainness, but now it came to her with a sudden hot flush—think of such talk being reported of her to the Doctor and Mrs. Thatcher!
There was something strange in her father's manner, an excitement very badly concealed, which puzzled her. He drove with almost reckless swiftness up the winding coulé road. He called her attention to the way-side crops, and succeeded in making her ask:
"Father, what in the world is the matter with you? I never knew you to act like this."
John laughed. "I'm a little upset getting you home again, that's all."