"How do we know he didn't, Bet? Honey, don't be a-deceivin' yerself. I'm mighty proud you have dropped his comp'ny."
"I hain't dropped it, pa. We er jest a-waitin'."
He sighed.
"You air pow'fully sot in yer ways, Bet, fer er young creetur."
"Pa, I mought as well give up livin' as ter give up Tom. You know how 'tis," her eyes traveling to the round, placid face of her mother sitting out in the entry, knitting.
Her father's face softened.
"Well, well, honey, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry fer, that's all I ax. Waitin' is sometimes a mighty tryin' thing."
"But it mus' be better'n not havin' anything ter wait fer," she said, solemnly.
But as time passed monotonously, without bringing any vindication of her lover's name, and hope died slowly and painfully, she learned the bitterness of waiting.
It was "fodder-pullin'" time, and the farmers were out from dawn until evening stripping the yellowing blades from the stalk, tying it, and stacking it in the wide hot fields. The new railroad skirted the western bounds of Mr. Jesse Crow's farm, and through the almost breathless stillness could be heard the ring of hammer and steel from the bridge building over Cool Spring Creek. Some of the strange workmen had a reputation for lawlessness quite shocking to the simple, peaceable country people.