"What's the matter, Bet? It's onjest to treat me in sech er way 'thout er cause," he said in wounded tones.
"You know I can't be a-wantin' enny o' yer comp'ny," she said, and before the righteous anger of her eyes he shrank back abashed.
The summer passed slowly—dewy dawns, languid sunlit noons, and dusky evenings. The corn ripened, and the cotton-fields promised a fair yield. Tom Fannin worked steadily, early and late, as though finding in constant occupation a panacea for his troubles.
"He'll soon git tired o' that; min' what I say," said one prophet, "an' go ter idlin' round ag'in."
But he did not, growing thin and brawny with constant toil. But the change had come too late. The charge of theft could neither be forgiven nor forgotten in that community.
Farmer Crow carefully refrained from mentioning Tom Fannin's name to his daughter since the morning he sat on the fence and talked with Mr. Jim Edwards. But his shrewd, kindly eyes observed the young man's demeanor with approval.
"He's got more grit than we calkerlated on," he mused.
At last he broached the subject to Bet.
"It's a pity Tom Fannin sp'ilt his fortune a-takin' that money; he's a-doin' so mighty well now."
Bet looked reproachfully at him. "How do you know he took it, pa?"