'You look pale, son; what’s the matter? You’d better come in to supper.'
'No, it isn’t going to be ready—quite yet, mother said.'
His father gave him another questioning look and went on into the house.
'What’s the matter with Crosby?' he asked inside. 'He looks as if he’d been frightened half to death.'
'Oh, he’s worrying himself to pieces about that pony. He’s been fussing round in the barn all day long. He really thinks he’s going to get it, I suppose.'
'Pony? What pony? Has he been working himself to death over that business? What’s he been doing in the barn?'
He walked through the house and down the back steps and crossed the yard. Then he opened the door which led directly into the old stall and stopped.
'Oh, Lord above us!' he whispered.
Never, since he was a child, a child like the one who had just looked up at him from the grass, had such an over-mastering desire swept over him to sit down, right where he was, and drop his head down into his hands—and cry.
'Oh, Lord above us!' he whispered again faintly, pushing his hand up to his eyes.