“Bethany,” he asked after a time and slowly closing the book, “what do you make of all this?”
“O, I think,” she said, eloquently, “that Satan must be the father of that bad black man that struck Higby, and his home must be in the fiery gulf.”
The Judge smiled. “Bethany, those were Dallas’s owls that attacked Higby. There was no black man there.”
“But, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, incredulously, “little birds could not be so bad.”
“I fear they were bad, Bethany. Birds are not all good. They are like children. Some are good, some bad; but come, it is your bedtime.”
“It doesn’t feel my bedtime,” she said, quickly.
“But it is. Little girls ought to get to bed early.”
“Sometimes I sat up late when my mamma was alive,” she said, coaxingly.
“I think you would better go,” said the Judge.
“There is no one up there that I know,” she replied, drearily.