In this state and equipage, then, did Mr. Muir overtake Homer and Myron.
"Homer, good-morning!" said Mr. Muir, solemnly, as he came abreast of them; and then he was past, his wagon jingling crazily, his knees nearly touching his chin, each wheel running at a different angle and leaving wavering tracks in the dust.
"Oh, Homer," said Myron.
"Well," said Homer, "what's the matter?"
"Mr. Muir—he'll talk," she said.
"You're quite right there," said Homer, with a vicious tightening of the lips. "It'll do him good." He gave the restive horses a slap with the reins, but the next moment checked their sudden speed.
"Don't mind me, Myron," he said, flushing under his brown skin as he felt her nervous start. "I am in a bad temper this morning, and disgusted with the way people gabble about nothing." And then they drove on in silence again. As they passed the little cemetery, they saw the piebald mare, in a ridiculous "stand at ease" position, tied beside the gate.
"Hear of any one dead?" asked Homer.
"No, not a word," said Myron, her thoughts reverting painfully to her last visit to her father's grave.
"Well, maybe old Crow's gone to see if any of 'em are coming up," said Homer. Then, the thought suggested to him by the field of young springing grain opposite, he added, "Not much of a crop from old Crow's planting." After this grim speech there were no further words until they were opposite the wire fence of Deans' so-called garden.