"There's the deacon coming!" exclaimed Johnny, suddenly.
"So he is! Johnny, just run into the kitchen, and I'll call you when you're wanted. We'll have some fun. Mother, don't say a word till we hear what the deacon has to say."
By this time the deacon had knocked. Mrs. Manning admitted him, and he entered with a preliminary cough.
"Are your family well, deacon?" asked the mother.
"They're middlin', widder, which is a comfort. Families are often a source of trouble," and here the deacon glanced sharply at Mark, who, rather to his surprise, looked cool and composed.
"That may be, Deacon Miller, but I am thankful that Mark never gives me any trouble."
"Don't be too sure of that, ma'am," said the deacon, grimly. "It's about that very thing I've come here now. Your son has shot my most valuable cow, old Whitey, and I regret to say, widder, that he'll have to make it good for me. Forty-five dollars is what the critter is worth, and I wouldn't have taken that for her."
"Are you sure Mark shot your cow?" asked Mrs. Manning.
"As sure as I need to be. I caught him standin' by the cow with his gun in his hand. The barrel was empty, for I tried it to see."
"What have you to say to this charge, Mark?"