"Ninety head!" Grandma gasped. "I had no idea 'twas so many."
"Well, 'tis." Grandpa's voice was tight and strained. "If the ocean swallers 'em, we're licked and done." He looked at the children. "And there'll be no schoolin' for this second brood o' ours." He rubbed the bristles in his ears, the worry in his face deepening. "One of the ponies is Wings."
"Oh ... oh...." Maureen's lips trembled as if she had lost a friend. "Not Wings!"
"Not Wings!" Paul repeated.
"Who's Wings?" Grandma demanded.
"Why, Grandma," Paul said, "he's the red stallion who stole Misty away for two weeks last spring. Don't you remember? He's the father of Misty's unborned colt."
Maureen went over to Grandpa and took his gnarled old hand into hers and pressed it against her cheek. "Tonight I'm going to send up my best prayer for Wings. And for all ninety head," she added quickly. "But, Grandpa, we don't mind about school. Honest we don't."
"'Course not," Paul said. "We'll just raise more ponies from Misty."
