"Don't think about that. Mama wants you. Come on!" said Foresta, averting her face.
The father and daughter trudged along home, the father trying to say comforting things to Foresta and she weeping the more bitterly the while. At length it occurred to Mr. Crump that Foresta was more deeply touched than would have been the case if her trouble had been merely that of a bruised hand. Stopping, he said,
"Say, now, Foresta, is your mama hurt?"
"O no, papa! Mama is not hurt. Come on!"
"Is Henry——"
Foresta perceived the coming question, and ran to avoid it. They were now near home. Foresta rushed in and threw her arms around her mother. Hearing her father's footsteps, she ran into the kitchen, leaving her mother to break the news.
"Ford, we haven't any little Henry now!" said Mrs. Crump in sad, soothing tones.
Ford Crump whirled away from his wife and walked rapidly out of the room through the kitchen into the back yard. Little Henry's chief task was attending to the chickens, and Mr. Crump stood at the fence running across the yard to form an enclosure for the fowl.
"Chicks, your best friend is gone," said he.
"My head! my head!" he cried.