“Yes.”
Frederick did not meet his eyes. He stiffened his back.
“It was just a dream, Sandy. Look, we’re worried and jumpy. That’s all. Hen, that’s right—don’t you think? What’s a little dream?”
Henry spoke with unaccustomed firmness.
“Ain’t no little ole dream gonna stop me!”
Frederick gripped his arm, thankful for Henry’s strength and determination. He keenly felt the responsibility of the undertaking. If they failed it would be his fault. He wished Sandy had not told him the dream.
The day dawned. Frederick went out to the field earlier than usual. He had to be busy. At breakfast Henry broke one of the precious cups. He was roundly berated by Old Missus. Her son said nothing. Henry had been more clumsy than usual lately.
The morning dragged. Frederick had been spreading manure for what seemed to him an eternity when—for no apparent reason at all—he experienced a sudden blinding presentiment.
“We’ve failed!”
It was as if a hundred eyes were watching him—as if all his intentions were plainly written in the sky. A few minutes after this, the long, low, distant notes of the horn summoned the workers from the field to the noon-day meal. Frederick wanted nothing to eat. He looked around probing the landscape for some reason for the awful certainty in his mind. He shook himself. He pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth.