Late one September afternoon, after a day of sunshine and blue skies, Joe’s father sat on the westerly porch of the farmhouse, looking away toward the lake, on which the shadows were now falling deeply, and thinking of what had occurred on its shores on a memorable day in June.
On the steps at his feet, her chin in her hands, thinking also of poor Joe, sat his daughter Jennie. Mrs. Gaston, busy with some household task, moved about in the rooms near by.
Suddenly through the lane around the corner of the house came Squire Bidwell. He declined Mrs. Gaston’s invitation to enter the house, and Mr. Gaston’s invitation to take a chair on the porch. Then with some embarrassment, as though he were treading on delicate ground, the squire said,—
“Neighbor, you remember that gray horse you used to have?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Gaston, coldly. “I remember him.”
“Well, some of us were talking about that horse the other day, and—and we kind of thought we’d look him up. We haven’t found him yet—”
“No, I presume not.”
“But we found out who took him.”