“No.” Peter’s hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good signs and took heart.
“Why, he joins Mary-Clare’s dogs and fetches the littlest children to the yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I’ve seen that little crippled tot of Jonas Mills’ on Ginger’s back. Ain’t that ginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it’s you as ails that dog––he’s what you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn’t unmindful of sparrows, takes notice of dogs.” Then suddenly, Polly demanded: “Peter, what is it, just?”
Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back against its gay cretonne cushions––a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just where her aching head rested.
“Well, Polly”––Peter slapped the leg that he had lied about––“you and I came to the Forest half a century ago and felt real perky. We thought, under God, we’d make the Forest something better; the people more like people. We came from a city with all sorts of patterns of folks; we had ideas. The Forest gave me health and we were grateful and chesty. It all keeps coming back and––and swamping me.”
“Yes, brother, and what else?”
“At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up the bar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks and protecting ’em.” Peter gulped.
“I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter,” Polly remarked fiercely.
“Then Maclin came!” Peter groaned out the words, for this was the crux of the matter.
“Yes––Maclin came.” Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. “And I think, looking back, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was a tester.”