It was all just as it had been left, the old walls and floor with great splinters scoured out of them everywhere; the manger with its shining, crooked front of clean, brown paper; the little hanging row of grooming implements: the small brush, the worn whisk-broom, the comb, the little old glove, the pile of grass in the manger, and the three ginger-cakes, the saucer of milk in the corner—and the jaunty bunch of goldenrod nodding down upon it all from the beam just opposite the door.
He pushed his hands blindly to his eyes again; then he went out, closed the door, and walked down the yard where Crosby was sitting—no, he was standing, standing and looking dumbly after a man who was walking away and blowing his nose.
'Crosby,' began his father huskily, 'Crosby,—come into the house, come in to supper,—I want to see you.'
Crosby looked up with dry, hunted-looking eyes, and his chin trembled just perceptibly.
'I’m coming—in just a minute,' he began, with a quivering appeal in the dry, hunted eyes to be left—to be left alone—just for a minute!
His father turned and went up the steps, while Crosby’s gaze shifted mechanically back to the man who was going on up the street. But he turned, too, slowly, and crossed the yard to the barn and opened the door and went in. He hoped no one had seen it, and he pulled off the brown paper from the manger and wrapped it round the pile of ginger-cakes. Then he reached up for the little row of grooming implements and took them down one by one.
When Crosby was three, he had tumbled down on a brick walk one day, and had sat up winking vaguely while drops of blood ran down his face—and tried to smile at his mother. It had never been just natural for Crosby to cry when he was hurt; but as he came slowly back into the old stall and stooped down to take up the saucer of milk, something dropped with a splashing sound into the milk, making rings away out to the edge. He raised his arm and dragged his hand across his eyes, and then he reached up for the jaunty bunch of flowers on the beam. But that strange, light feeling in his head, dimly associated with the hill road, seemed to confuse him again—and he could not just remember what he was going to do next. As he pushed open the door, he tripped over some scattered goldenrod, and then went stumbling along to the house.
'He said—I could have her—if I got started right off—he said—I could have her—if I got started right off—he said—he said—he said I could have her—if I got started—'
His mother met him at the door.
'Come in—Crosby—' she began brokenly, 'come in—'